


Irezumi: The Memory of You

by Chocolatpen



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Amnesia, Grooming, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealousy, Love Triangles, M/M, Manipulation, Misunderstandings, Multi, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Tattoos, but only because Akaashi is a badass with a knife
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24699574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocolatpen/pseuds/Chocolatpen
Summary: Police officer Kuroo Tetsurou has spent his entire career trying to bring down the once-prominent Yakuza presence in his city.The Fukurodani Group is the last bastion of the old Yakuza way. While their influence and power have waned in recent years, they are now under the leadership of Bokuto Koutarou, a wild legacy kumicho.When a raid on one of the Fukurodani Group’s safehouses goes awry, Kuroo is saddled with an amnesiac Akaashi Keiji, who was once the most loyal aide to Bokuto himself.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Akaashi Keiji/Kuroo Tetsurou, Iwaizumi Hajime & Kuroo Tetsurou & Sawamura Daichi, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 182
Kudos: 409





	1. making a scene

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!! Welcome!! 
> 
> Now that 'Touchdown' is ending, I'm pretty hyped to start a new story :D I promise this is not as messed up as my other works, there's only one warning and I plan on sticking to just that one (graphic depictions of violence). There's just something about hurt!Akaashi yknow ;)
> 
> I don't have a beta reader and I try to proofread my work as best as I can, but of course it's not foolproof so just bear with me and my tired brain!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this! Please do leave some kudos/comments if you do <3

Akaashi Keiji fiddles with the sleeves of his navy yukata as the limousine slowly inches its way through Tokyo traffic. He always gets anxious when they make a public appearance – which is much more often than Akaashi would like, what with his kumicho’s flamboyant personality.

Bokuto Koutarou, the newest head of the Fukurodani Group, is as young and reckless as they come. The son of the previous kumicho, Bokuto stepped up to his position when his father was killed in a shoot-out with the cops. Bokuto has been leading them ever since, and he’s been rather successful with diverting the police force’s attention away to the other Yakuza clans.

This plan of action might have been working these past years, but the number of Yakuza in Tokyo has already dwindled to an all-time low. There won’t be anyone left to crush but Fukurodani, soon enough, and then they will be left to deal with the entire of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force bearing down on them.

“Akaashi! Are you excited?” Bokuto pipes up from next to Akaashi, bright-eyed and grinning. Bokuto is wearing a yukata too, only it’s a stark white in colour and held together by a golden obi at his waist. The fine material opens up over his well-defined chest, the swirls of his irezumi tattoos peeking out in a dare. A black haori lined in gold stretches over his broad shoulders, complementing the shades of his unique features.

“I am very excited, Koutarou,” Akaashi replies flatly. As they come to a stop outside a tall, glass-and-metal building, Akaashi reaches for the knives sewn into his too-long sleeves. “Please don’t cause a scene.”

“Aww, ‘Kaashi, you don’t need to worry about me,” Bokuto laughs. He leans forward, closing the space between them and pecking Akaashi on the lips. Akaashi sighs into the kiss, eyes fluttering close for a second before Bokuto is pulling away again, big eyes fond. “We should show off your pretty face more often.”

“That’s very funny, Koutarou,” Akaashi’s voice is clipped and dry as he steps out of the car. As per usual, he falls into step a little to the side and behind Bokuto. The kumicho is already on to a different subject, raving about how modern everything looks.

Akaashi knows that Bokuto is a big boy, and that he is more than capable of taking care of himself. Akaashi is also aware of the pair of holstered handguns hidden under Bokuto’s haori, as well as the knives strapped to his calves and hidden in the soles of his shoes.

Bokuto is armed, and trained, and dangerous, but Akaashi still can’t help but worry.

Akaashi is Bokuto’s aide, after all. His right-hand man. There’s no Akaashi if not for Bokuto. Fretting over Bokuto’s safety has become something of a habit as of late, and it doesn’t help that their situation is becoming more dire by the day. Akaashi wouldn’t even be here, if not for his inability to say no to Bokuto.

“I want us to have a date night! Like we used to!” Bokuto had declared, a mere few days prior, as he stormed into his private quarters in the Fukurodani mansion. Akaashi had followed him in exasperatedly, ready to spew explanation after explanation about how bad of an idea that would be.

“C’mon, Keiji, it’s not like they can arrest us for having dinner,” Bokuto pleaded, amber eyes widening into a puppy-like stare.

Akaashi didn’t stand a chance. He never does – which is why they are here, riding the elevator to the 100th floor of a building in Ginza. This area used to belong to one of Bokuto’s childhood friends, another Yakuza heir of the now defunct Shinzen Clan. They’d been cleaned out by the police during the first few years of their war on organized crime, and Bokuto hadn’t requested to come back here since then.

“Their wagyu is supposed to be really good, Akaashi!” Bokuto hoots, bouncing on the balls of his feet as the elevator finally comes to a stop. “We’re going to have such a feast!”

Akaashi sighs and nods, linking his hands together inside his drooping sleeves. His knives are always a comforting presence in such an open, unsecured environment.

Akaashi knows that they are the only big Yakuza group left in Tokyo, so the possible threat of assassination is low. He also knows that the police abide by their silly rules and laws to a T. There’s no way they’re going to change that and arrest Bokuto and Akaashi with no evidence, no matter that both of them have probably done everything they suspect and more.

But worrying and overthinking has always been Akaashi’s job, so he still takes note of the security cameras and stares down anyone they pass by. It may be quite the chore sometimes, but Akaashi does quite enjoy the feeling of Bokuto's unwavering trust for him - the trust that Akaashi will put Bokuto's safety, his life, above all else.

“Table for two! It was made under, uh, Komi Haruki, I think?” Bokuto grins, and for once he’s looking up at the host standing vigilant outside the restaurant. He’s a very tall blonde boy, one of the tallest Akaashi has seen, who doesn’t even flinch at the sight of them. He calls over a colleague through the little headset balanced on his head.

A jumpy-looking orange-haired boy immediately skids over to them, eyes darting warily from Bokuto to Akaashi as he leads them into the restaurant. The kid babbles loudly, too loudly for such a tiny body, but his antics are putting a smile on Bokuto’s face, so Akaashi doesn’t really mind him that much either.

Akaashi’s amusement dies quickly, however, because he realises how unrealistic he had been for thinking that they'd be able to blend in. The two of them stick out like sore thumbs amongst the throngs of well-dressed diners. Yukata and tattoos don’t really complement the suits and sparkling dresses that everyone else is wearing, after all. It’s too obvious that they don’t fit in.

Akaashi sighs. It’s been so long since either of them has been amongst normal people that they’ve become out of touch.

Walking around in his yukata never bothered Akaashi before, even when he’d been surrounded by henchmen dressed in sharp black suits, but now he's actually starting to feel slightly self-conscious. It’s different because the Yakuza respect Akaashi and Bokuto, unlike these snooty rich people who’ve taken to whispering behind their hands and averting their eyes in barely concealed fear.

Akaashi is taking a sweeping look around the room, cataloguing faces and marking down potential emergency exits, when he spots them. The three men are sitting together on one table and dressed in suits too, although they don’t look as fancy or refined as the other patrons.

What Akaashi notices about them, first, is the fact that this trio are the only ones in the entire restaurant who dare to stare at them. Then he recognizes their faces.

Akaashi looks away, biting the inside of his cheek. He really has the worst luck.

It’s only a matter of time before Bokuto recognizes the three men too. He grins, shark-like, when he does, and pulls away from their little orange-haired server to step confidently over to the trio instead. Akaashi’s eye twitches a little, but he dutifully follows after his kumicho.

_This is my job_ , Akaashi chants in his head. _This is my job_.

“Gentlemen! What a fine night to be out!” Bokuto greets, voice booming loudly, as they approach. It scares some of the other diners, who Akaashi nods to politely in apology. “Chief inspector Sawamura, and sergeants Kuroo and Iwaizumi.”

When the three men stay silent, Bokuto’s grin widens. “Don’t you remember me? That’s cold. Because I remember very clearly, how Kuroo-san and Iwaizumi-san here raided my childhood home for drugs and came away… empty-handed.”

“I apologize for that, Bokuto-san,” The chief inspector, Sawamura Daichi, dips his head in a shallow bow. There’s a fake smile plastered on his features. “It was a mistake on our part. I hope it didn’t inconvenience you too much.”

Beside Sawamura, Iwaizumi Hajime’s face is turning a little red. He tries hiding his angry scowl behind a glass of wine, but it’s not very effective. Akaashi has read his file – he’s volatile, has a short temper, but also calms down as quickly. The sergeant is the captain of the second division, which deals in narcotics and illegal distribution. He has one weakness: his husband Oikawa Tooru, who used to be a professional volleyball player but has since retired and now owns his own floral shop.

The one they should actually be worried about is the last man – sergeant Kuroo Tetsurou, captain of the first division. He’s the driving force behind the crackdown on organized crime, the reason behind the fall of most of the other Yakuza clans within the past decade. He joined the police force at the tender age of twenty and has since risen the ranks while eradicating corruption and leaving ruined Yakuza clans in his wake. He’s only twenty-eight now.

“Ah, you’ll have to apologize to Akaashi for that.” Bokuto laughs heartily, like they’re not staring down their doom in the form of a trio of straight-laced police officers.

Akaashi sighs when the three gazes lock onto him instead, the tense line of their shoulders growing even more pronounced when they realise that they can’t see his hands. They must have some kind of file on _him_ , too, if they know what he can do with a blade.

Akaashi shrugs, when he realizes that they’re still waiting for a reply. “You broke one of my favourite vases.”

“Oh,” Sawamura utters, and then he clears his throat. “I’m very sorry about that. Would you like us to send you another one?”

“I’m afraid it was one-of-a-kind,” Akaashi says, blandly. He’s not going to welcome a gift from the police force, of all people, when it could potentially hold tracking or recording devices. “Koutarou bought it for me for my birthday. It had owls on it.”

They lapse into an awkward silence. Bokuto simply stands there with a smile on his face as Akaashi watches their orange-haired server and his manager panic in his peripheral. One thing about Bokuto is that he really likes making people squirm. It's why he usually leaves quite an impression wherever he goes.

Akaashi should never have expected otherwise.

“What’s the special occasion, good officers?” Bokuto finally says, his eyes taking on a different glint. They’re not wide and open anymore, golden irises mere slits in a dangerous smile. “Aren’t you punching a little above your weight class?”

Sawamura blinks, looking a little taken aback. He opens his mouth, “Well-”

“We just eradicated the Nohebi clan. Yakuza, you know. Nasty stuff.” Kuroo says, cutting off his superior. There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, like he’s trying to taunt them. “It’s a celebratory dinner.”

Akaashi stops his lip from curling in disgust. If Kuroo were in Fukurodani, Akaashi would have cut off his tongue for speaking out of turn.

“I see. Congratulations are in order, then,” Bokuto says, although his smile has dropped on the edges. Nohebi hadn’t been the most pleasant of the Yakuza clans, and they hadn’t been as powerful as the Fukurodani Group, but Akaashi does remember having a few good dealings with them in the past.

Akaashi had watched the live court trial as they sentenced Daishou Suguru, Nohebi’s cunning kumicho, to life in prison with twenty strokes of the cane. Sergeant Kuroo had been smirking from the bench the whole time.

“Thank you,” Kuroo says, placing one hand on his chest, above his heart. There’s a cat-like smirk playing on his lips as he raises his glass to them. “We’re working on the heavy-weights right now, but you can rest assured that Tokyo will be restored to a lawful state soon enough.”

Akaashi feels the rage bubbling in his blood and decides that he really hates this guy.

Bokuto seems to agree, because Akaashi can see his fingers twitching. He must be so tempted to reach under his haori, pull out his guns and shoot these three irritating bastards in their faces. Akaashi is really tempted too. Just a flick of his wrist, a quick throw of a knife, and at least a few of their never-ending list of problems can be struck off.

Instead, Akaashi lets the tension leak out of his frame, blinks once, and unlinks his hands.

The three officers twitch, wine sloshing in their glasses, as Akaashi flashes the threatening glint of the metal lining his sleeves. He lets his sleeves droop back down over his hands, and tugs at the material of Bokuto’s haori.

“Let’s go, Koutarou. I’m hungry.” Akaashi says, forcing down an amused up-quirk of his lips. The officers can posture all they want, but Akaashi is sure that they fear Bokuto more than Bokuto fears them. Yakuza play by a different set of rules, after all. Sometimes, they don’t even play by any rules at all.

“Of course, Akaashi!” Bokuto nods, grinning, before he shoots a two-fingered salute at the trio. “See ‘ya around, officers.”

Akaashi nods his head at them too, linking his arms back inside his sleeves as they turn away. He lets himself smile, now that his face is hidden from the policemen, at the way their eyes follow the movement of his hands in naked apprehension.


	2. kiss goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to all my readers from 'Touchdown', and welcome to all new readers!! I will be replying the comments on the last chapter of 'Touchdown' within the next few days. I'm in the middle of my finals season right now so it's been a bit of a busy time.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the overwhelming support :D 50 kudos in one chapter!! Wow. I really, truly appreciate it <3
> 
> Enjoy!! :)

Trust is a very important component in an organization like the Fukurodani Group.

It’s hard enough for any one person to join them at the street level, let alone climb to the upper echelons of the hierarchy, so trust usually comes hand-in-hand with membership – a side effect, or rather a consequence of the sheer amount of effort the Fukurodani Group demands from its members. Any betrayals, rare as they may be, are dealt with ruthlessly and succinctly.

So it’s no wonder that Akaashi is fuming, rage dancing wildly in his blood, as he watches the police cruisers skidding to a halt in front of their safehouse.

There is a traitor in their midst.

Bokuto’s fist goes flying into the coffee table. The wood splinters under the weight of his strength, Akaashi’s lukewarm tea splashing onto the floor.

“Only the Six Wings know of our location?” Akaashi’s voice is sharp as he regards the man sitting across from him.

“Unfortunately,” Konoha Akinori replies, foxy features furrowed under his blonde fringe. He fiddles with his tablet, passing it over to Akaashi after a moment. “These are all their current locations and assignments.”

Akaashi scrolls quickly through the short list. The Six Wings are Bokuto’s most trusted deputies, with Akaashi and Konoha making up a third of the elite circle. Right now, the rest are scattered throughout the prefecture on miscellaneous jobs. There’s no one near enough to provide much help, and no one with any recorded deviation from their work.

“A traitor! Amongst the Six Wings!” Bokuto snorts, barking out a laugh that lacks any of his usual humor. He takes another peek out of the big, panel windows of his office and retreats towards the bookcases on the other side of the room. Even as enraged as he is, Bokuto still knows better than to be seen.

“We’ve failed you, oyabun,” Akaashi bows his head, fists clenching at his sides. Konoha quickly follows suit, because Akaashi is usually the benchmark of Bokuto-appeasing behaviour. “We should have been more careful. It could have been one of the underlings.”

“No,” Bokuto says, almost immediately. He waves one of his hands dismissively, the other massaging the deep crease between his brows. “I’m not thinking about this right now. We have other things to worry about.”

Akaashi knows that he’s been forgiven, that Bokuto could never blame him, but it just makes him hate himself even more. For now, Akaashi just brushes aside the unnecessary guilt – he can deal with that later.

Akaashi is close to Bokuto not just because of their relationship, but also because he has been raised by Bokuto’s side, groomed into the position at Bokuto’s right hand. Years upon years of lessons and experience have molded Akaashi into the strategist, the protector, the killer that he is today.

Akaashi is efficient. He is useful. He is prepared.

“Send an S.O.S to the other Wings. Give each of them the address of a different safehouse.” Akaashi orders, regarding Konoha, who starts typing furiously. “The two of you will go to a fifth. It’s unlikely that the traitor will reveal themselves at this juncture, but it’s still better to have a safety precaution in place.”

“The two of us?” Bokuto repeats. His eyes are huge and bright in his confusion; cold, hard gold melting into swirling vats of honey. “Akaashi, what about you?”

“Koutarou, you need to go downstairs, take whatever you can and then blow up the warehouse.” Akaashi says, a little slower than before. He knows that it’s going to be hard for Bokuto to accept this. “There’s a back door. Take the men down below and _go_. I’ll stay with the others and stall for time.”

“But- Akaashi, I’m not leaving you behind!” Bokuto flails his arms in a small tantrum. Then he scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. “Konoha can stay instead.”

Konoha raises a brow, mouth twisted in resigned amusement. “I feel so appreciated right now.”

“I’m sorry, Konoha-san,” Akaashi sighs. It’s well known amongst the Fukurodani Group members that Akaashi and Bokuto are inseparable – and they are, in any usual circumstance. But this isn’t an ordinary situation. It’s more like doomsday knocking on their door, and they can’t afford to lose Bokuto to it. No matter the sacrifice. Akaashi tries again. “You know why it has to be me, Koutarou. I can hold them off much longer than Konoha-san. There’s no time, Koutarou. Please.”

When Bokuto doesn’t reply, hunching his shoulders and pushing his lip out in a pout, Akaashi closes his eyes in exasperation.

“Will you go on ahead, Konoha-san?” Akaashi says tiredly.

Konoha nods an affirmative, light brown eyes darting from Akaashi to Bokuto and back, before he turns and tugs at one of the books on the large shelf lining the wall. A soft mechanical whirring is the only sound it makes as it rolls to the side, exposing a poorly lit staircase beyond.

“It will be unlikely that I escape without a prison sentence, so please take care of Bokuto-san in my stead, Konoha-san,” Akaashi adds, before Konoha can step away. Bokuto’s face twists in anger, but Akaashi is not certain if it’s because of what he said or because Bokuto doesn’t like being ignored.

“Of course, Akaashi,” Konoha smiles grimly, and then his form is quickly swallowed in the darkness as his hurried footsteps fade down the hidden staircase.

Akaashi is relieved – Konoha, at least, understands the urgency of their situation. It’s only been a few weeks since Akaashi and Bokuto’s ill-fated dinner date, and yet that menace of a police officer Kuroo Tetsurou has already closed in on them like a stubborn bloodhound.

“Akaashi, I don’t care! Let our men deal with the cops, you need to come with me.” Bokuto demands, closing the distance between them and wrapping Akaashi in a hug. The kumicho’s broad back is shaking slightly, even though Akaashi has never known a scared Bokuto in all the years he has served him. “Please. We- We’ve never been apart.”

Akaashi has never thought of it that way, but he supposes that it’s true. They’ve been apart for business trips, and they were separated when Bokuto had to learn things only the future kumicho of Fukurodani could know, but Akaashi and Bokuto have been a constant presence at each other’s side for most of their lives. Fukurodani Group is as much Akaashi’s as it is Bokuto’s.

“I know,” Akaashi nibbles on his lip. He’s getting antsy – the sounds of their men scuffling with the policemen in the courtyard have grown quieter. They’re running out of time. “I don’t want this either, Koutarou. Don’t worry, alright? Just be ready with the bail. If they’ll grant it to me.”

Bokuto only seems to cling on tighter. “But I love you! I don’t want to leave you here!”

“I love you, too,” Akaashi says, and it makes his heart hurt. He blocks out the overflowing emotions, pressing kisses to Bokuto’s forehead, his cheeks, and finally his mouth. Bokuto kisses back, desperately, and Akaashi has to push him away. “This is my job, Koutarou. _Go_. I’ll open up the path for you.”

Bokuto seems to want to say something else, but the door bangs open and one of their yakuza henchmen bursts in. He looks panicked, blood running from his broken nose, but he takes one look at Akaashi and Bokuto and falls to his knees on the floor. “I- I’m sorry, Bokuto-sama, Akaashi-san, we tried to hold them back for as long as we could. They’ve gotten into the house, and the corridors are narrow so it’s a little easier, but we can’t- not for much longer.”

Akaashi exhales sharply, through his nose, but the tension bleeds out of his shoulders once he turns back to Bokuto.

Bokuto’s face has changed, big golden orbs narrowing into soulless pits. He’s no longer just Bokuto Koutarou, Akaashi’s childhood friend and lover. He’s now the kumicho of Fukurodani Group, the same man who wouldn’t think twice before breaking skulls against the sidewalk and bashing bodies with big metal baseball bats.

“You’ll come back to me, Akaashi.” Bokuto says, and it registers as an order. His mouth is set, fists clenching at his sides. “No matter what, you’ll find your way back to me?”

Akaashi nods, certain as the sky is blue and the grass is green. “Always.”

Bokuto stares at him, gaze chilling and burning at the same time, and then he’s sweeping into the hidden passage. The bookcase rolls back into place behind him.

Akaashi pivots on his foot as the mechanical clasp clicks shut, striding out of Bokuto’s office with an uncertain yakuza boy stumbling behind him. His eyes are wide, twisting the tattoos that wrap around his temples. “Akaashi-san, you’re staying?” 

“We need to secure the kumicho’s escape. This is of the utmost importance, and as such I am the best person suited for the job.” Akaashi says, his voice colder and sharper than he intended. Bokuto isn’t the only one who hates being separated.

The previous kumicho, Bokuto’s father, used to call Akaashi Bokuto’s security blanket. Akaashi always thought it was the other way around.

“Yes, of course, Akaashi-san,” The man nods enthusiastically, his entire attitude turning one-eighty. At any other time, Akaashi would never have been left behind like this. His mere presence amongst the lower ranks is one of the best morale boosters they could ever hope for.

As they round the corner, the sounds of shouting intensify. Akaashi’s heart stutters in his chest – the police have already gotten this far, which is to say much further than Akaashi is comfortable with. Determination rushes through him like water through a broken dam. These foolish policemen won’t be allowed to proceed any further, not if Akaashi has anything to say about it.

Everything stills, somewhat, as Akaashi approaches the line of yakuza holding the police back. Akaashi fingers his blades, long since ready in his palms, as he surveys the policemen. The others must be stuck outside, still. There are only twelve here, unable to press their numerical advantage in such a tight space. Two of them, unfortunately, are irritatingly familiar.

“Akaashi-san!” Officer Kuroo Tetsurou calls out, shit-eating grin spreading on his face even though his lip is split and his cheek is bruised. His black, bird’s nest hair droops into one of his sharp golden eyes in a haircut that Akaashi expects is not strictly the standard of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force. “Just the person I wanted to see.”

Officer Iwaizumi Hajime is right beside him, as he always seems to be at these sorts of raids. Akaashi has seen the tapes, has enjoyed the frustrated look on both their faces as they find nothing incriminating in the Fukurodani Group’s emptied safehouses. He looks angry as always, dark spikey hair cut close to his scalp.

“We have a warrant.” Iwaizumi declares, green eyes flicking to Akaashi, and then back at the yakuza he’s pushing with his plastic riot shield. “Tell your men to stop resisting.”

“You’re not going to find anything here,” Akaashi says, after a short pause. He toys with the tip of his knife, blinks as he feels the sharp edge dipping into the pad of his finger.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Kuroo smirks, although his eyes flicker warily from Akaashi’s face and down to his concealed hands. “So that means that Bokuto is here, too.”

“You know nothing.” Akaashi hisses. He waves his men to the side, and they oblige hesitantly. Even the policemen falter at the newly cleared pathway, Kuroo’s leer morphing into a frown as he stares Akaashi down. Akaashi stares back, gaze impassive. “You can try, but you won’t get past me.”

Akaashi knows that he looks much less imposing than the other yakuza members, even if they’re just street-level urchins to his esteemed status as Bokuto’s aide. It’s easy to get his opponents to underestimate him, and that’s what makes a few of the dumber policemen to rush him amidst Kuroo’s loud cry to _stop, he’s dangerous_ -

It would be much easier to kill the policemen who think themselves skilled enough to take him down, but Akaashi’s trying to get off with a light sentence. Bokuto will get the best lawyers for him, Akaashi is sure of it. Maybe they can even spin it to the tune of unlawful breaking and entering, and then self-defense.

It’s a little harder to leave his opponents mostly unharmed, instead of just ending their lives with the lethal skill he has trained his whole life to perfect, but Akaashi has never been one to back down from a challenge.

_Thwack. Thwack._

Akaashi’s knives are mere flashes of light in the air. They cut through clothes, pinning the policemen to the walls or the floor. Some of them get nicked and start bleeding in the process, but that’s not something they should be complaining about when the alternative is a swift death.

The other yakuza are moving now, too, forcing the police officers back a few more steps.

Akaashi slides another pair of daggers into his palms, feeling the weight of his sleeves lighten much more than they’ve been the past few months. It’s been awhile since he’s seen combat like this. Assassinations are part and parcel for someone like Akaashi, but slitting necks is easy when the target is asleep – whether willingly or not. The thrill of the fight, of having an opponent struggle against him, is something entirely different.

Kuroo hits one of the lower yakuza over the head with his baton, knocking him out and taking the opportunity to charge at Akaashi.

Akaashi steps back, throwing one of his daggers at the policeman. Kuroo dodges, just barely. The knife leaves a little slice of a cut on the sharp angle of Kuroo’s cheekbone. The policeman doesn’t falter. Kuroo brings his baton down when he’s within range, and it slides off Akaashi’s knife in a shower of sparks.

“Why didn’t you kill my men?” Kuroo demands, falling into a crouch when Akaashi tries to stab him with his other hand. He swipes his leg out in a half circle, but Akaashi jumps over his shiny, dark boot and lands a few feet away. “What are you planning?”

“And here I thought you’d appreciate my mercy.” Akaashi murmurs, throwing another knife with a flick of his wrist. A new blade doesn’t fall into his hand, as he’s used to, and Akaashi belatedly realizes that his right sleeve is already empty.

Unfortunately for Akaashi, Kuroo avoids the dagger again, his body moving with surprising ease. Akaashi curses himself. Is he out of practice? Or is Kuroo really this skilled?

There’s not much time to berate himself, because Kuroo unexpectedly lunges at Akaashi. It’s an attempt to tackle him to the ground, not injure him, as his weapons are nowhere to be seen.

The lack of bloodlust makes Akaashi’s eyes widen in surprise. He pulls his last knife back under his sleeve and lashes out with a hard kick to the side of Kuroo’s face instead. His foot connects to Kuroo’s arm instead, sending the policeman sprawling backwards.

Akaashi watches, mildly impressed, as Kuroo maneuvers himself in midair so that he’ll land on his feet. Everything about the landing is calculated – his centre of gravity is perfect. Only, the floor starts shaking before Kuroo can maintain his balance. The police officer falls over on his bum with a low thud.

Kuroo swears, holding himself up against the wall. He falls silent again, eyeing his surroundings suspiciously as everything starts shaking again. It might even feel like the tremors of a passing earthquake, if Akaashi didn’t know any better.

Everything after this is a blur.

“Leave-” Akaashi starts, glaring at Kuroo’s confused expression, but then a loud booming sound shatters Akaashi’s eardrums just as the wall on his left collapses. Things are crashing down all around them now, but Akaashi is preoccupied with the pain bursting through his body and the heavy weight of bricks on his back.

The heat around them is ballooning, the roar of fire in a crescendo. Dust and smoke from the fire invade Akaashi’s nostrils and blind him with tears. He tries moving his body, but his efforts are fruitless. He’s pinned under the rubble. Opposite Akaashi, Kuroo groans as he slowly gets up on all fours, bricks and torn wallpaper sliding off his back.

“Kuroo, get out,” Akaashi rasps, feeling weak and cold. Above him, the ceiling is slowly crumbling. It’s going to drop on him soon.

“And just leave you? I don’t give a shit about you, but you’re not fucking dying before I get your Goddamned testimony, Akaashi!” Kuroo snarls, hobbling over and attempting to dig at the rubble pinning Akaashi to the ground. “Fuck! You’d die for Bokuto, right here and now? You’d let him kill you like this?”

Another explosion goes off, even nearer this time, and the other wall, and the ceiling- they’re all shattering now, disintegrating in a shower of brick and glass. Akaashi feels it slice the back of his head.

“Yes,” Akaashi’s voice is just a whisper, now, and he wonders if this really is it. “Anything f-for Koutarou.”

No one really wakes up and thinks that it’s their last day of their lives, their last day as themselves. Akashi wonders if he’ll shut his eyes here and open them to light, or darkness. He wonders if he’ll have the chance to lead a normal, peaceful life. He wonders if he’ll ever see Bokuto ever again. _He’s going to be so mad that I couldn’t keep my promise._

Akaashi feels something hit the side of his head. A brick maybe, or the light hanging precariously from the half-demolished ceiling. White-hot pain bursts through his senses one last time, before everything falls dark.

The last thing Akaashi sees is Kuroo, bleeding and covered in dust, reaching out to him with his mouth open in a scream.


	3. do i know you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!! Thank you for your support :D I'm glad y'all are liking this so far!
> 
> BTW, I wanted to write Kuroo as a policeman because I came upon a clip on YouTube and I found that [Migisuke Aiba from Nisekoi](https://nisekoi.fandom.com/wiki/Migisuke_Aiba) looks... very similar to our favourite Kuroo-san HAHA
> 
> Enjoy <3

Kuroo Tetsurou wakes up to the steady beep of a heart monitor, hushed chatter, and the pounding of a headache clawing its way out of his brain. He swears as a result of that last one, rubbing his temples as he squints against the bright sunlight.

“Looks like sleeping beauty’s finally awake!” An annoyingly chipper voice grates against the officer’s eardrums. Big, brown eyes come into focus as Kuroo blinks away the haze of sleep. “Yoo-hoo! Earth to Kuro-chan!”

Kuroo groans at the volume, quick to shush the other man. “Oikawa, you’re too loud.”

Even in his late twenties, Oikawa Tooru has the youthful charm of someone who has recently graduated from high school. His brown hair, the same shade of warm chocolate as his eyes, is styled in an artful tousle atop his head. As always, the smell of flowers clings to his skin and the pale blue of his cardigan.

“So cranky,” Oikawa complains, and the pout that follows looks oddly at home on his boyish features.

“Stop harassing him, shittykawa,” Iwaizumi’s voice carries, sounding a little raspier than usual.

Kuroo props himself up on his elbows to look around Oikawa. Iwaizumi in the bed next to his, back resting against a truly outrageous pile of pillows. The other officer looks rather unharmed, save for his bandaged hands and the gauze taped to his cheek. That’s good.

Iwaizumi is still glaring at Oikawa, even though he’s clutching at a bouquet of flowers like it's his lifeline, and Kuroo can’t help but let a smirk pull at his lips. They’ve known each other for more than a decade, now, and Kuroo has teased Iwaizumi about his behaviour the entire time. Not that it ever changed anything, but Kuroo’s more than satisfied with the flush that reddens Iwaizumi’s cheeks every time he sees Kuroo judging him.

Iwaizumi loves Oikawa deeply. That’s a fact, no matter how reluctant Iwaizumi acts. Kuroo is kind of jealous of those feelings, just because he’s never met anyone who he could feel the same way towards.

“Mean, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa huffs, shoving another bouquet of flowers into Kuroo’s chest. He almost falls back down onto the bed from the force of it, steadying himself on one hand before wrapping the other around the bouquet. “Both of you are so mean, even though I came all the way down to the hospital with gifts.”

“Thanks, Oikawa,” Kuroo says, teasing grin growing. He wiggles backwards, till his back hits the wall, and props himself up against it. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you probably shouldn’t be stealing from your own shop.”

“I did not _steal_!” Oikawa gasps, scandalized. “I paid for it just like any other customer.”

“Uh-huh,” Kuroo chuckles. It’s so easy to get under Oikawa’s skin, and Kuroo has had more than enough practice since Oikawa and Iwaizumi became joined at the hip in high school.

Kuroo didn’t really like Oikawa at first. In fact, Iwaizumi probably hated Oikawa even more than Kuroo did. If Iwaizumi were a strong, unyieldingly straight sunflower stalk, then Oikawa is somewhat of a weed. A flashy one that no one really minds in their garden, but still a weed. He grows on people, stubborn and clingy, and that’s exactly what happened to Iwaizumi.

Kuroo is really only half-joking with the analogy. Oikawa actually is a pretty sweet person, below all the barbed wire and poisonous thorns. He’s also not as irritating as Kuroo once thought he might be, either, past all the incessant whining and self-destructive behaviour. Kuroo pauses at the thought. Everything good about Oikawa seems to be layered behind a ‘but’. His headache worsens just thinking about it.

“Well, I’m glad you’re well enough to be your usual annoying self,” Oikawa makes another huffing noise, turning his nose up at Kuroo. He likes doing that. “What did I tell you about bringing my poor Iwa-chan with you on these dangerous missions? Now look at the state of two of you!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Kuroo waves his hand in surrender. The floral scent intensifies, and Kuroo scrunches up his nose. He’s always been a little sensitive to pollen. “I’m the third wheel to your relationship, Oikawa. Trust me when I say I’ll die before I intentionally put Iwaizumi in harm’s way.”

“Good that you know that.” Oikawa harrumphs again, crossing his hands over his chest.

…It seems Kuroo will be making a stop by Oikawa’s favourite bakery once he’s cleared from bed rest. Five slices of milk bread, coming right up.

“It’s not Kuroo’s fault, Tooru,” Iwaizumi sighs, deeply. It seems they’ve had this conversation before – and actually, now that Kuroo is thinking about it, he wonders how long he’s been asleep. “We just didn’t expect that they’d blow up the whole fucking place to keep us from getting anything on them.”

Kuroo’s eyes narrow, frustration and helplessness seeping back into his mood like a cancerous node. Bokuto had been there. Kuroo is certain of it. It’s the only reason why Akashi would come to stall them himself – he would have just escaped otherwise, as important to the Fukurodani Group as he is.

Unconsciously, Kuroo’s hands start curling into fists. He’d been so _close_. The whole time, Kuroo had been so confident that this would be their last raid ever. He’d been so confident that they would be eradicating the Yakuza from Tokyo. For good.

And yet, Bokuto has somehow slipped through their grasp again. He’s even more slippery than Nohebi had been, and they were a den of snakes.

Amongst other things, Kuroo is beginning to doubt their intel that Bokuto and Akaashi’s life-long relationship has evolved into something romantic. Akaashi, amongst many other Yakuza members, had still been in the building when the explosions went off. There’s no way Bokuto would willingly blow up his own lover, and if he did, well, he’s more ruthless than Kuroo thought.

“What happened to Akaashi?” Kuroo pipes up. He isn’t concerned about the Yakuza boy, per se, but it would be nice to know that their operation hadn’t ended in total failure. Capturing Akaashi, even if it’s just for the assault of a few officers, is still a decent enough charge to keep him in prison and out of trouble.

Kuroo remembers the way the wall fell on Akaashi, pinning him beneath heavy brick and cracked cement. He remembers the way Akaashi told him to leave, even though his breaths were growing weak and shallow. He remembers the moment the ceiling started crumbling, a loose piece of rubble landing on Akaashi’s head hard enough for the blood to flow thick and dark.

Akaashi hadn’t lasted long after, eyes falling shut. Kuroo had tried digging Akaashi out, but he didn’t have much headway till Iwaizumi came stumbling up to them. Between the two of them, they’d only barely managed to pull Akaashi out of the rubble before the fire came raging down the corridor.

The three of them broke out of the warehouse, into the courtyard, and Kuroo had promptly passed out.

“He flatlined,” Iwaizumi says, and it makes Kuroo’s eyes bulge. Iwaizumi waves his hand half-heartedly. “No pulse, till they managed to get him going again in the ambulance. The last I heard; he’d been stabilized.”

“What a reckless kumicho,” It’s Kuroo’s turn to huff now. The yakuza have always been somewhat of a sore spot for him, just because he and Iwaizumi had grown up in impoverished circumstances. They were childhood friends, their innocence stolen in the early years of their lives as the Yakuza harassed their families for protection money.

Tokyo had been a different place a mere decade ago, before Kuroo and Iwaizumi came onto the force and drove the cretin out of their holes. Back then, Kuroo had peered into the dark underbelly of society and watched it stare right back at him.

Their upbringing is what brought both Kuroo and Iwaizumi to this point in their lives. It’s what made them into the successful police officers they are today, and it’s why culling the Yakuza means so much to them.

Kuroo, especially, is still hungry for Yakuza blood even despite the many clans they’ve felled over the years. He thinks he might always be.

“Both of you are awake. Good.” The door to the hospital room slides open, and Sawamura Daichi steps in. He’s decked head to toe in his full uniform, which makes both Kuroo and Iwaizumi straighten and salute him in greeting.

“How are you feeling?” Sawamura asks, slipping his peaked hat off his head. He nods a greeting at Oikawa, before taking the seat beside the lanky florist.

“Never mind that!” Kuroo says, leaning forward in anticipation. “What about the investigation?”

Sawamura pauses, eyes lingering over Oikawa. The brunette takes this as his queue to leave, rolling his eyes and pecking Iwaizumi on the forehead. “I’m going to the vending machine. Anyone want anything?”

There are a chorus of negatives, all three of the men in the room whipped for Oikawa Tooru in different capacities, and Oikawa just shakes his head as he flounces out of the room.

Once the doors close behind Oikawa, Sawamura sighs loudly.

“Sounds like bad news.” Iwaizumi says, eyes narrowing.

“It’s been two days since the raid. We interrogated as many of the Yakuza as we could, but all of them were tight-lipped.” Sawamura shakes his head. “Bokuto bailed them out fast as he could, of course. He’s always done that. We detained about ten of his men on charges of aggravated assault. They should be in prison for a few years, at most.”

“So, nothing?” Kuroo groans, fisting his hair in his hand. Just thinking about all the work they put into this – the resources they wasted, even the paperwork that must already be waiting for him – makes his headache blossom into something just shy of a full-blown migraine. And then his eyes snap open in realization. “What about Akaashi Keiji? We can put him away too, both Iwaizumi and I can testify. He’s Bokuto’s aide. It’ll be a huge loss for him.”

“It’s… complicated,” Sawamura seems to struggle with himself for a moment, before his face darkens. “First off, we never officially arrested him. We have nothing against him. No evidence. We could probably try for a charge on resisting arrest or defying a warrant, but that’s not going to buy us much time.”

Iwaizumi curses under his breath. Kuroo frowns, dread pooling like slime in his stomach. “What else?”

“I just came from his room.” Sawamura says, pursing his lips. “Akaashi recently woke up, but he’s… he’s lost his memory. He has amnesia.”

Kuroo blinks at his superior once, and then bursts out laughing.

“Amnesia? That’s f-funny,” Kuroo clutches at his stomach, shoulders shaking from his guffaws. It’s aching in a way it hasn’t for a long time, and tears of mirth blur his vision. “That’s like, the easiest cop-out in the history of cop-outs.”

“Kuroo,” Iwaizumi calls, and when Kuroo looks at him he can see that Iwaizumi’s face is screwed up in disbelief. “I don’t think Sawamura-san is joking.”

Kuroo’s gaze immediately snaps back to Sawamura, who looks like he’s chewing on a particularly bitter lemon. Kuroo feels his lip curling, black hate clawing at his heart, and then he’s shoving himself off the bed – flowers and injuries be damned. It’s easy enough to snatch the IV drip out of his arm and push past the doors of his hospital room.

It’s less easy to ignore the whirling in his head in favor of powering through the corridor, but Kuroo is pass the point of caring. Distantly, he can hear Iwaizumi and Sawamura calling his name. Kuroo also briefly bumps into a surprised Oikawa as he stumbles through the hall, but he doesn’t stop. Kuroo simply refuses to stop. Not till he can stare down Akaashi Keiji and call him out on his bullshit.

Only one of the rooms in the same ward has a police sentry, so Kuroo heads over with anger bubbling in his belly and his fists clenched tightly at his sights. His lip curls in a snarl as he comes to a stop outside the hospital room, glaring through the half-drawn blinds with unconcealed contempt.

“He’s not restrained.” Kuroo remarks, trusting that Sawamura and Iwaizumi have followed after him.

As a police officer, it’s the first thing Kuroo noticed. Akaashi’s hands are curled tightly in his stark white hospital blanket, no handcuffs in sight. Kuroo’s own hands itch for the handcuffs that are so often dangling at his hip, but he’s not in uniform so he settles on clutching at the thin material of his hospital gown instead.

“He freaked out when he woke up, Kuroo,” Sawamura supplies, coming to a stop next to him. Iwaizumi is barely two steps behind him. There is a doctor sitting by Akaashi’s bed with a clipboard in hand, and another police officer standing guard beside him. “Started hurting himself, with how badly he was struggling.”

“He’s just acting!” Kuroo snaps, shifting his glare to Sawamura even though he knows he’s being rude.

“I know you’re doubtful, Kuroo, but he’s not,” Sawamura purses his lips, sitting his hat snugly on his head. “I mean, a wall collapsed on him. The doctor said that he has brain damage from blunt force trauma.”

Kuroo’s lips turn down, mouth opening indignantly even though he was there when that happened. “But-”

“Kuroo, stop,” Iwaizumi cuts him off, in a low warning tone that even Kuroo knows better than to argue with. “Just look at him.”

Kuroo frowns and turns back around, haltingly. It’s true that Akaashi doesn’t look like the same person. The few times Kuroo has met him have been brief, but Akaashi always carried himself with certainty. He was always confident and self-assured, but the Akaashi sitting in that hospital bed is hunched into his body. He looks small. Vulnerable. Both things Akaashi could never be as the aide to the most influential Yakuza boss in Tokyo.

Kuroo also realizes that it’s the first time he’s ever seen Akaashi without his arms covered, and his eyes roam greedily over the fresh bandages around Akaashi’s wrists and the multitude of scars – deep, jagged ones and thin, surface-deep ones – decorating the full length of his arms. The result of years of training with his favored daggers, most likely.

Kuroo also notices that Akaashi’s piercings are gone. The three black studs curving up his ear were perpetually present, but the hospital probably had to get rid of them when they pushed Akaashi into surgery.

The pang of reluctant acceptance only hits Kuroo when he settles on watching Akaashi’s face. Kuroo can clearly recall the cold look in Akaashi’s eyes. It was like all the soul, all the brightness, had been sucked out of him. Akaashi’s eyes had been nothing but murky pools of seaweed, narrowed and emotionless as he assessed Kuroo and attacked him. Kuroo doesn’t expect that Akaashi’s eyes can widen much, not with how heavily hooded they are, but now his eyes are as wide as they can go; shining with confusion and gleaming with unshed tears.

_Tears_!

Before Kuroo can scoff at the pathetic look that Akaashi is sporting, he finds those green eyes focusing on him through the glass. There’s a spark of recognition there, Kuroo definitely sees it, and he can’t help the excitement growing in his stomach.

“Look, it’s a lie. He fucking recognizes me,” Kuroo says, eyes still glued on Akaashi. He frowns when instead of the usual derisive scorn, Akaashi’s mouth falls open in a surprised smile.

Kuroo has never seen anything other than impassivity on Akaashi’s face. The smile is a weird look, because it makes Akaashi seem like a normal human being – one who’s glad to see Kuroo, for some reason.

Kuroo watches wordlessly, both Sawamura and Iwaizumi falling silent as well, as Akaashi says something to the doctor while pointing towards Kuroo. The doctor turns around, eyes tired behind his glasses, before standing and moving towards the door.

“Officer Kuroo, would you please come in?” The doctor sighs, eyeing the blood welling from where Kuroo plucked out his IV drip with disdain. Kuroo looks back at Sawamura, who nods his permission.

Kuroo squints as he’s led into the room. His mind is running on overdrive, trying it's best to reconcile Akaashi’s behaviour now with Akaashi’s behaviour in the past. All of this is odd, and doubt begins carving itself into Kuroo’s once solid belief that Akaashi is just faking it.

“I remember you,” Akaashi says, in what is probably the most thrilled tone he can manage while only having one facial expression. Kuroo squints even more, and Akaashi takes it as a sign to elaborate. “You saved me. I’m not sure if it had been a fire or an earthquake, but I couldn’t move. You were there, I remember you reaching out to me.”

Kuroo feels his brain stutter to a stop. “Oh.”

“Thank you,” Akaashi continues, as though he hadn’t just done the equivalent of stabbing Kuroo with one of his knives. Akaashi fiddles with his hands nervously, which makes a lump emerge in Kuroo’s throat. “I don’t- I don’t remember much, but I’m sure I would’ve died if not for you. Please, would you tell me your name?”

“Kuroo Tetsurou,” Kuroo swallows, his mouth dry. He doesn’t even realise that he replied till after the words squeezed themselves out of his lips. Kuroo can barely feel his own body, more preoccupied with the thought that the entire operation had been for naught. There’s no evidence leftover once the fire raged through the warehouse, and now they don’t even have the secrets that Bokuto’s aide could have hidden in his sharp mind.

“Kuroo-san,” Akaashi says, testing the word on his tongue. It’s said reverently, without a trace of the hatred that once burned at Kuroo’s name. Then, Akaashi’s eyebrows pull together like he’s uncertain about something. “I’m- I’m Akaashi Keiji.”

_I know_ , Kuroo wants to say.

But he doesn’t, because it’s not true anymore.


	4. left with nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooo my dears!! I keep getting distracted. It's so tempting to start a new story but I need to focus on this one >.< Also, thank you for 103 kudos!! Wow, I'm glad y'all are really liking this :D
> 
> I feel so bad for Akaashi and Bokuto in this one :"(
> 
> Enjoy <3

Akaashi doesn’t really know what to think about the police officers that come to stand outside his door. To be fair, he doesn’t really know what to think about most everything in his life right now.

Akaashi did wonder why none of the other patients had a police guard at all times, too, but it was explained to him that it’s because he is an important part of an investigation that the police force is conducting. Unfortunately, that’s the only thing that anyone seems to be able to tell him. No one knows where Akaashi came from, or who he had been before he lost his memory.

The police officers, and Kuroo especially, seem really frustrated about it. One of the things that Akaashi is certain about is that he does feel bad about being an unintentional foil in their plans, and he’d been sure to let Kuroo know.

“I’m sorry I can’t remember anything,” Akaashi had said, one of the times Kuroo visited him. Kuroo never really came around till Akaashi specifically requested it from his doctor, and then the officer started coming around every week. “But I’m sure I would’ve helped you as much as I could, if I did.”

Kuroo’s face had twisted into something really weird and uncomfortable-looking, and he left soon after, but Akaashi has long come to expect odd things from his savior.

Police officer Kuroo Tetsurou. The first time Akaashi met him – or rather the second, counting the one snapshot in his memory of Kuroo reaching out to him amidst a hazy backdrop – Kuroo had been in hospital garb, like Akaashi. His hair seemed to have undergone a catastrophic level of destruction, because it was sticking up all over the place like crazy.

The next few times Kuroo came to visit, he looked bigger, somehow, in his navy police uniform. His hair, as Akaashi comes to find out, is usually a different type of messy piled on top of his head and drooping into his sharp golden eyes. Akaashi thinks that golden eyes jolt his memory somewhat, a wave of familiarity and fondness washing over him, so maybe he’s actually met Kuroo a few times before and just can’t remember it anymore.

Neither of them talks much, and Kuroo’s visits are short and far between. While he is always accompanied by either one of two police officers – sergeant Iwaizumi Hajime, who was introduced as Kuroo’s best friend, or chief inspector Sawamura Daichi – Kuroo is still the only one who steps into Akaashi’s room, save for Akaashi’s doctor and the stoic police sentry stationed in the corner.

So Akaashi understandably perks up when all three of them enter his room together, one and a half months after he first wakes up handcuffed to a hospital bed.

“Akaashi-san, the doctor has just informed us that you are cleared to be discharged from the hospital.” Sawamura begins, twisting his peaked cap in his hands. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Akaashi nods, eyes drifting to Kuroo, who’s leaning against the wall some few feet behind Sawamura. He looks sullen, like he might start kicking at the ground in dejectedness, and Akaashi feels himself frown.

Sometimes, Akaashi finds himself projecting behaviour onto people. He has certain expectations, certain assumptions, certain habits and ticks that he doesn’t understand. It feels like second nature to Akaashi, even though he lacks any solid reasoning to back up any of it. Akaashi certainly doesn’t know Kuroo well enough to predict his behaviour, after all.

“Unfortunately, you don’t seem to have any family members on record,” Sawamura continues, which pulls Akaashi’s attention back to the chief inspector. “Since the doctors have decided it improbable that you regain your memories any time soon, the hospital is having a hard time actually releasing you. They might decide to house you in one of their facilities while you are rehabilitated.”

Akaashi twists at his fingers nervously. It’s true that no one else came to visit him. If he had anyone close to him, they surely would have shown up by now. This means that Akaashi is alone, has no support system to speak of, on top of being entirely clueless about who he is supposed to be. This means that Akaashi might not have the freedom to find out what happened to himself, if he’ll be stuck in what is most likely a mental health centre.

  
Akaashi’s eyes dart back to Kuroo even before he realizes it himself. Kuroo is the only source of comfort he has in this foreign world. He’s the only one that Akaashi remembers from _before_.

Akaashi can’t help but hope that Kuroo will still visit him, even when he’s undergoing rehabilitation.

“As you know, you are quite heavily involved with an investigation that we are carrying out.” Sawamura says, waving Iwaizumi forward. The officer hands over a big tote bag, before stepping back into his place next to Kuroo. “The police force is willing to provide alternative arrangements, should you agree to temporarily sign over guardianship to us.”

Akaashi perks up, back stiffening.

This is quite the lucrative offer. The police force still seems to want to include him in their confidential investigation, even if Akaashi is completely useless without his memory. Akaashi wants to be helpful, though, even if he doubts that he can do much, and he’s sure that he’ll be able to see Kuroo much more if he accepts their offer.

Besides, Akaashi is sure that any place else is better than a mental asylum.

“I would prefer that, please,” Akaashi says, after a short pause, which makes Sawamura smile and rifle through the bag. After a moment, he extracts a stack of paper and places it on the table attached to Akaashi’s hospital bed.

“Your primary point of contact will be Officer Kuroo Tetsurou.” Sawamura explains, detaching a glossy black pen from the pocket on his chest and handing it over to Akaashi. “The decision was made based on your prior familiarity with one another.”

Behind Sawamura, Kuroo clicks his tongue. He’s shoved his hands in his pockets, but they fall to his sides when Iwaizumi elbows him in the ribs.

Akaashi can’t recall if he’s a perceptive person, but he does get the sneaking feeling that Kuroo might not like him much. Akaashi is probably overthinking things, though, because it’s very unlikely that anybody would save someone they don’t like from certain death.

Kuroo is his _savior_. Akaashi should just be grateful and move on, but for some reason he can’t let this slide.

Kuroo has become the most important person in Akaashi’s life, and the possibility – the _very likely_ possibility – that Akaashi’s golden-eyed savior could hate him carves a deep wound in his heart.

Akaashi has no context and no clues, and although Kuroo is such a big part of Akaashi’s life post memory loss, Akaashi can barely be considered close to him. It’s better, Akaashi thinks, to just ask Kuroo outright and get it over with.

“Do you dislike me, Kuroo-san?” Akaashi asks, bluntly. Iwaizumi directs his glare at Kuroo, who splutters.

Akaashi immediately lowers his gaze, hands clenching around the thin fabric of the hospital-issued blanket. His entire world flips on its head, and he feels like the breath has been kicked from his lungs.

Akaashi must have had some really strong feelings towards Kuroo, which lingered from before he lost his memory. It’s the only explanation Akaashi can think of for what he’s feeling now. There’s no way he could be feeling this much emotion towards some guy he’d only met once or twice, right?

Kuroo inhales deeply, and then when he exhales the sharp tension of his shoulders dissipates.

“I don’t hate you, Akaashi,” Kuroo says, stepping forward now to stand beside Sawamura. He puts his hands on his hips and offers up a tentative up quirk of the lips. It looks more like a smirk than a smile. “We’re all just not really used to- to the amnesia.”

Akaashi nods, slowly, looking into one of Kuroo’s eyes, and then the other. Akaashi doesn’t really know what he’s searching for, but he doesn’t detect anything that raises any red flags, so he wriggles forward on his bum so that he can take a better look at the papers.

The terms and conditions are standard enough of a typical witness protection program. Akaashi has no idea why he is aware of this, or how he knows to read the whole agreement twice over just in case. Examining legal documents, and then signing at the bottom of the page, pulls Akaashi’s mind together in a focused sharpness that he hasn’t felt once the entire duration of his hospital stay – not even while he dutifully followed doctor-prescribed mind exercises.

Akaashi feels a spark of hope. Maybe he’d been a lawyer, or someone noteworthy. Someone noble, like the police officers that frequent his room.

“Alright, thank you, Akaashi-san. You’re in good hands.” Sawamura nods in a short bow, tipping his hat back on his head. He takes the paper and pen and smiles at Akaashi in a kind, paternal way. “I’ll go process the paperwork. I’m sure Kuroo can take it from here.”

Akaashi waves back in goodbye as he watches Sawamura and Iwaizumi exit the room. By the time the door closes behind them, Kuroo is already standing by Akaashi’s bed. The officer rummages around in the tote bag and fishes out a pile of neatly folded clothing, as well as a pair of shoes.

“Go change!” Kuroo says, voice fading to a mumble as he continues searching for something in the bag. “Then we can finally blow this joint.”

“Do you think,” Akaashi starts, tentatively, as he flips through the offered set of clothing. An oversized t-shirt, skinny jeans, boxer-briefs, socks and a pair of white tennis shoes – all rather plain but versatile and necessary. “I could get something long-sleeved instead?”

Akaashi is very grateful for what the police department could get for him, seeing as he doesn’t have any belongings or property to his name, and the last thing he wants is to seem unappreciative, but his arms are the one thing Akaashi is most ashamed of. They’re ugly, all cut up and riddled with scars. Akaashi doesn’t know what made him sad enough to inflict that kind of damage on himself, but he’s glad that he can’t remember it anymore. It’s really the only upside in this situation.

Akaashi’s arms are symbols of his weakness – a weakness that he is adamant on never caving in to ever again, but still a weakness that he did have before. It’s embarrassing, and that feeling is why Akaashi has requested that his arms be bandaged every day.

“Long sleeves?” Kuroo questions, a hint of suspicion in the way he enunciates his words. Then he blinks, and then any emotion is gone from his face. “It’s summer, Akaashi. Anyway, the short sleeves are… a safety precaution.”

“A safety precaution?” Akaashi echoes, blinking owlishly. Then it clicks in place. Right. They probably don’t want Akaashi to do anything silly, not with his mind in a muddled state and the evidence of his past mistakes marking up his arms.

Akaashi feels his mouth dry up and the heat rise to his cheeks, so he quickly scoops the pile of clothes in his arms, hooks his fingers into the shoes, and escapes to the small private bathroom in the corner of his room.

As Akaashi slips on the provided outfit, he realizes that all of the clothes feel kind of odd.

The jeans fit, but Akaashi doesn’t care for the way the rough material is tight against his skin. There are small rips in them too, artfully done instead of from wear and tear, which Akaashi doesn’t understand. The shirt is light on his body, so much so that Akaashi could possibly forget that he’s even wearing a shirt. It’s so oversized that it drops down to his thighs, so Akaashi stuffs the front of it into the waistband of his pants.

Once Akaashi deems his outfit presentable, he slips on the shoes and goes to wash his hands in the sink.

It might not be the sanest thing he’s ever done, but Akaashi finds that he likes touching his face while he stares at himself in the mirror. He watches, transfixed, as water droplets cling to his skin in the wake of feather-light fingers, and then he tucks a loose black curl behind his ear.

Everything about this face – the sharp jaw, high cheekbones, heavily hooded green eyes – had been totally foreign mere weeks ago.

Akaashi probably stared at his face in this same mirror for more than half an hour, the first time he’d seen himself after waking up. The same features that might have been mapped perfectly over the course of his twenty-five years of life had become foreign and totally unknown. It’s an odd sensation to feel that way, when it's Akaashi’s own face that he can’t recognize.

Akaashi pinches the shell of his ear and rolls the flesh between his thumb and pointer, observing as it splits three times in a crescent up the edge. Piercings. They’ve probably gotten rid of whatever earrings he’d had before, but Akaashi wishes they hadn’t. At least then, he’d at least have something to his name.

“Thank you for waiting,” Akaashi murmurs, as he exits the bathroom and closes the door behind him. When he turns to face Kuroo, the police officer has a vaguely uncomfortable look plastered all over his features. It’s likely an involuntary reaction, since Kuroo is usually so guarded with his emotions. Akaashi swallows. “Is everything okay? Did I wear something wrongly?”

“No, no,” Kuroo snaps out of it, waving his hand in a dismissive motion. He still looks a little unsettled, eyes raking down Akaashi’s body in what seems like confusion. “I just never thought I’d ever see you wear anything this casual.”

“Oh?” Akaashi perks up at the tidbit of information, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. At least that explains why Akaashi feels so uncomfortable in what is supposed to be casual wear. “What do I usually wear?”

“Not this,” Kuroo mutters, shaking his head, and Akaashi knows that he won’t be getting anything more out of Kuroo on the matter.

All of the police officers have been wary about saying too much about what Akaashi was like before he lost his memory. Apparently, they just want Akaashi to act as he would without any outside influence.

Kuroo peels back the lid of a small cardboard box and pulls out a white surgical mask. He hands it over to Akaashi, the brief touch blossoming into sparks along Akaashi’s skin. “Wear this when you’re outside. The investigation is still ongoing, so we don’t want anyone… unsavory to recognize you.”

Akaashi obediently does what he’s told, slipping the mask over his nose and tugging it snug around his ears and chin. When Kuroo nods in approval, Akaashi feels a burst of happiness in his chest. He’s so busy trying to understand why, exactly, he’d been so pleased with himself, that he almost forgets to follow after Kuroo.

Akaashi falls into step just a little behind and to the side of Kuroo. It feels right, watching over a broad back from this position, but Akaashi has to blink away the ghostly image of a back even broader than Kuroo’s, lined with muscle and so very strong.

Akaashi chews on his lip as they enter the lift, falling back into his rightful little slot even as they turn to face the closing metal doors. It’s a back that inspires him, that Akaashi knows for sure. But he’s not sure whose back it is.

As they exit the lift and emerge in an underground parking lot, Kuroo clicks his tongue. He sounds annoyed, like he did back in Akaashi’s hospital room, but Akaashi doesn’t have enough time to figure out what Kuroo is annoyed about. 

“Come here,” Kuroo says, reaching back and tugging Akaashi forward so that they’re standing side by side. His hand is strong and a little rough as it clamps around Akaashi’s arm, but Akaashi doesn’t mind. The policeman averts his gaze, pulling his peaked cap lower over his forehead. “It’s weird having you follow me like some kind of lost puppy.”

Akaashi smiles behind his mask, only belatedly realizing that Kuroo can’t see it. It makes him happy that Kuroo would say something like that. It must mean that Kuroo is slowly opening up to Akaashi, even as incomplete and lost as he is now.

They walk in silence, till Kuroo makes a frustrated noise and pulls his cap off his head entirely. “Can we start over?”

“No,” Akaashi replies instantly. He sees the way Kuroo’s eyes widen in shock, and scrambles to elaborate. “You saved my life. I don’t know how many times I have to say it, but I won’t just forget it, Kuroo-san.”

Kuroo makes a face, running his hand through his wild hair. Somehow, it still stands all crazy-like even after getting flattened against his scalp by the police cap.

“I meant that I wasn’t very pleasant to you, these past few weeks, and I don’t want that to set the standard for my behaviour. I’ve been frustrated with work recently, and I took that out on you.” Kuroo pauses, eyes flickering to Akaashi. He looks a little downtrodden, or conflicted, maybe, which immediately sends warning signals to Akaashi’s brain. “I’m sorry about that.”

“That’s alright, Kuroo-san.” Akaashi replies, and he makes sure his eyes crinkle so that Kuroo knows that he’s smiling. Akaashi doesn’t really understand his body’s urgent need to placate any negativity, but he just goes with it. “I understand.”

“I just want us to start off on the right foot, since we’re going to be staying together and all.” Kuroo continues, and Akaashi nods. For some reason, this seems to perplex Kuroo even more. When the police officer speaks again, his words are tinged with meaning that is lost on Akaashi. “I want you to come to me if you see anyone suspicious, or if you remember anything. No matter how small it is.”

“Of course, Kuroo-san.” Akaashi reassures. This comes naturally to him, Akaashi thinks. Maybe he’d been a kindergarten teacher. Or a babysitter.

Kuroo watches Akaashi out of the corner of his eye, then looks away. A shiny midnight-blue Volvo beeps in greeting, which almost drowns out the officer’s words. “Good.”


	5. mismatch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!! We have a longer chapter today :) 
> 
> Some bad news: I will be taking a week off from writing this story just because I want to re-think how the rest of the chapters are going to play out. I'm not really satisfied with the plan I drew up when I first started writing this, so I want to take some time to change things up. I've also been feeling so tired recently, what with the world slowly coming out of lockdown and my responsibilities piling up again, so I apologise if my replies to your comments are not as in depth/enthusiastic as usual. 
> 
> My birthday is coming up this week too (yay some good news!) so I thought it'd be a good time to take a break :) Nothing that I've already posted will change, so don't worry about having to reread or anything!! 
> 
> Thanks for bearing with me, and also for all your support!! I hope you enjoy this chapter and I will see y'all again real soon <3

Kuroo spends the first week sleepless.

He can’t help it, even if Akaashi’s deep asleep on the other side of a locked door. Kuroo’s mind just keeps racing, running scenario after scenario of getting murdered in his sleep. Or abducted. Or tortured. Or drowned. Or any other gruesome death that his already sleep-deprived brain can whip up.

Akaashi, or rather the foreign being currently in possession of Akaashi Keiji’s body, expresses concern when Kuroo’s eyebags get heavier and darker with every day that passes.

“Kuroo-san,” Akaashi says, tentatively, on day five. He’s sitting across from Kuroo at his small dining table, looking concerned as he places his chopsticks back on top of his bowl. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Kuroo replies, the words muffled as he shovels rice and a whole over-easy egg in his mouth. It's a lie, and Kuroo is very not fine. He wants to stop thinking about the many ways Akaashi can possibly kill him. “Just stressed out about work.”

One of Akaashi’s eyebrows rises, incredulously, and Kuroo almost chokes. He must be in an even worse state than he thought, if he just contradicted himself like that. Akaashi thinks he’s on a break now, which of course is not true.

While officially, Kuroo is on a leave of absence from the precinct, he’s not exactly off the clock. His job scope has simply shifted from leading his team and being on active duty, to being babysitter of the amnesiac Yakuza boy who has set up shop on his couch.

If anything, Kuroo comforts himself with the fact that it’s still a mission with the highest confidentiality level that he’s ever had. Only Iwaizumi and Sawamura are privy to Akaashi’s whereabouts, while all other information is on a strict need-to-know basis, because Akaashi is technically dead.

Akaashi flatlined at ground zero, in front of all the Fukurodani cronies, and there’s no record of the police force making an arrest. Once the mole confirmed that Bokuto has accepted Akaashi’s death as fact, Sawamura deemed it safe enough for them to extract Akaashi from the hospital.

So really, Akaashi has – for all intents and purposes – become a ghost.

No one should be looking for Akaashi, but they’re still being careful in case Bokuto hasn’t yet given up the search. It’s just as well that Kuroo is the person that’s sheltering Akaashi from the world, because while Bokuto is laying low for now, wary and grieving, he’ll soon be out for Kuroo’s blood.

Sawamura didn’t choose to leave Akaashi in Kuroo’s hands just because he’s seemingly imprinted on Kuroo like a baby duckling. Kuroo was chosen because he’s skilled enough to go toe-to-toe with Akaashi should his memories return, not to mention that it’s the police force’s best interest to keep Kuroo out of the spotlight for now.

Kuroo acknowledges the decision and respects it. He might be vengeful and brave to the point of stupidity, but he’s not suicidal. The officer may be alright with losing his life in the line of duty, but he’s not going to just deliver himself to Bokuto on a silver platter.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Akaashi finally says, once it becomes obvious that Kuroo would rather bury himself in his breakfast than talk about his feelings.

_No, unless you’ll let me restrain you while we sleep_. Kuroo thinks sullenly. He swirls his chopsticks around in his bowl and wonders if he’ll die from sleep deprivation before Akaashi ever gets his hands on him.

“… I don’t mind?” Akaashi mumbles, and Kuroo freezes, chopsticks clattering onto the tabletop. When he looks up, Akaashi’s gaze is focused on the table, where he’s twisting his fingers. “I’ll do it if it helps.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to- to say that aloud.” Kuroo’s entire face burns when he realizes how weird he sounds. Honestly, as they are now, Akaashi should be running away from him instead of the other way around.

Akaashi shakes his head, eyebrows pinched together. His eyes are swimming with apprehension. “Have I… Have I ever hurt you, Kuroo-san?”

“No!” Kuroo replies immediately, on reflex, because for some reason Akaashi’s vulnerability makes him feel sick. Then he really thinks back, to the flash of steel under embroidered sleeves and the adrenaline rushing through his blood as a knife flies past his face.

Akaashi could have killed Kuroo. Akaashi could have attacked them at that high-end restaurant, and Kuroo has no qualms that he would’ve been dead long before drawing his gun, let alone aiming and firing it. Akaashi could have seriously maimed him, or even ended Kuroo’s life, while they were both ready and sparring at the warehouse – yet Akaashi settled on immobilizing and disarming him and his men.

Kuroo knows that Akaashi is capable of restraint and of mercy, but he also clearly remembers the many autopsy reports and crime scenes with Akaashi’s calling card stamped onto the unique slashes ripping apart victims’ throats.

“No,” Kuroo repeats, running a finger along the faded scar on his cheekbone. He sighs. “I’ve seen some messed up stuff on the job, and it keeps me awake at night.”

Akaashi nods, slowly, like Kuroo’s lie is something that he actually buys.

That night, Kuroo handcuffs Akaashi’s wrists together and wraps them with rope. He bids his houseguest goodnight, locks the key to the handcuffs in his drawer along with his gun and his badge, and then puts _that_ key under his pillow for safekeeping.

  
It’s the best sleep that Kuroo has gotten in years, and he barely has it in him to be apologetic about the harsh red marks that cut into the flesh of Akaashi’s wrists.

The second week, Akaashi offers to contribute more to the household.

“I can’t remember how to do many things,” Akaashi says, inching closer as Kuroo surfs TV channels from his couch. “But I want to help you as much as I’m able to.”

Kuroo has hardly even come to terms with the fact that the same person who he’s been observing through grainy security footage and the odd traffic camera is living with him in his tiny one-bedroom apartment. Honestly, he hasn’t come to terms with it at all, but he somehow backtracks even more as he watches Akaashi running a rag across the windows and vacuuming the living room.

It is very odd that Kuroo has a coldblooded killer offering to cook and clean for him. It is very, very odd indeed, so Kuroo indulges in a much-needed escape by making a trip to the grocery store for fresh mackerel and extra cleaning supplies.

To be fair, _this_ Akaashi isn’t a coldblooded killer. Probably. Maybe.

  
Kuroo half-expects Akaashi to be gone when he returns, but Akaashi is waiting for him with a tiny smile and a polite “welcome home”. Kuroo is reminded that Akaashi is much stronger than he looks, even after being hospitalized and mostly dormant for a month, when Akaashi easily transfers the heavy bags from Kuroo’s arms to the kitchen counter.

What can Kuroo say, second trips aren’t manly.

Kuroo then demonstrates how he likes to cook his mackerel. It’s easy, like most of the recipes he knows as a bachelor living on his own – he scales two fishes first, drizzles a generous helping of salt over them, and finally chucks them into the grill below the stove. Usually, Kuroo likes to leave them in for a little longer than necessary, till they’re dusted with a beautiful golden-brown crust.

As Kuroo watches the fish cook through the glass, he absently tells Akaashi to chop up some vegetables and freezes as the words come out of his mouth.

Kuroo observes, with something like morbid curiosity, as Akaashi rinses a bulb of bok choi under the tap before placing it on the chopping board. He reaches for the knife block and trails his fingers over the cheap plastic handles, touch delicate and testing.

Kuroo can’t help but tense up as Akaashi pulls out a medium-sized knife. He seems to test the weight in his hand, staring at the sharp edge intently.

And then he tosses it in the air.

“Akaashi!” Kuroo shouts, almost involuntarily, as he gets up off the floor and rushes to Akaashi’s side. The younger boy turns to look at him in question, knife already safely gripped in his hand. Kuroo is quick to tug it from his fingers. “Akaashi, why did you do that?”

“Oh,” Akaashi frowns, scratching his cheek weakly. “I’m not sure, it just felt right.”

Kuroo’s mouth hangs open a little, anger stealing his words. Is this just a simple muscle reflex? Or a sign that Akaashi might regain his memory soon? If so, then they are certainly manifesting in odd ways. Kuroo may actually suffer from a heart attack sometime soon.

“Just don’t-” Kuroo inhales sharply, fingers clenching around the handle of the knife. “Don’t play with knives like that ever again, okay?”

Akaashi watches him, not an ounce of fear on his features even though Kuroo looks like he may stab Akaashi at any time. Kuroo sighs deeply, kneading the creases between his brows wearily. Akaashi trusts him too much.

When Kuroo looks up again, Akaashi’s confusion has faded into muted understanding- and shame?

“I won’t, I promise,” Akaashi murmurs. His hands flutter towards Kuroo hesitantly, before they drop back down to his sides. “I’m sorry. I was being inconsiderate.”

Kuroo watches Akaashi warily, even as he slips the knife back in its holder. “Inconsiderate?”

“You were worrying for my safety, because- because of my past?” Akaashi says, and the end of his sentence lilts upwards in a question. Kuroo tenses, his hand tightening around the handle of the knife because Akaashi is talking about his past like he remembers-

“I used to hurt myself, right?” Akaashi blinks a few times, and then he looks downwards, at the bandages wrapped tightly around his arms. “The scars are truly terrible.”

Kuroo’s mouth drops open, and his grip goes slack. Akaashi’s frown deepens, and he’s most likely misunderstanding yet another thing about Kuroo’s expression, so Kuroo quickly schools his face into an awkward smile. “Y-yeah.”

“Losing all my memories isn’t ideal, but I’m still somewhat glad that this happened to me,” Akaashi continues, words slow and deliberate. “I don’t think I want to remember whatever drove me to do this to myself. And I got to meet you, Kuroo-san, so it’s really not that bad.”

Kuroo just pats Akaashi on the back and tells him to watch over their mackerel instead.

This is the closest Kuroo has ever been to Akaashi, and he has no idea how the younger boy used to act while in private with Bokuto, but it’s quite easy to guess from his current behaviour.

Ever since Akaashi woke up, he’s been treating Kuroo like a ticking time bomb. From his calculated replies to his thoughtfulness and his subtle deference, Akaashi has been displaying nothing but devoted responsibility to someone he considers his savior. Kuroo decides that this is all either a character trait that Akaashi has primed over the years, or an ingrained reflex without which there may have been consequences Kuroo isn’t keen on learning about.

Akaashi’s memory loss has robbed him of many things – years of brutal training and experience, the prestige and respect of his elite position, and even the dubious honor of being lifetime partners with the kumicho of Fukurodani.

Now, the amnesia is even pushing Kuroo into the Bokuto-shaped hole in Akaashi’s heart.

Kuroo, someone the normal Akaashi probably detested for causing Fukurodani so much trouble. Kuroo, who had, only months before, been trying to sentence Akaashi to a lifetime in prison.

In place of that vicious, cold assassin from the police force’s confidential files, is a sweet boy who would do anything for Kuroo. It isn’t hard to see how easily that could have been twisted to form the blind loyalty Akaashi had for his kumicho – so much so that Akaashi had been more than willing to die for Bokuto back in that collapsing warehouse.

The thoughts plague Kuroo’s mind as the weeks turn into a full month of living with Akaashi.

Kuroo learns that Akaashi is a quick learner, and while he’s still handcuffed all night till Kuroo wakes up, the younger man still tries his best to prepare Kuroo’s meals for him. Most of Kuroo’s doubts are erased when he stops watching Akaashi like a hawk and still hasn’t been stabbed or poisoned while eating his supper, but hesitancy is quick to replace it.

_We can use him._ Kuroo remembers saying, as he convinced Sawamura to keep Akaashi close. He feels guilty, now, because Akaashi without his memories is just another civilian the police force is charged with keeping safe.

Kuroo sets a final test for Akaashi, five weeks after he first moves into Kuroo’s apartment. It’s both radical and not, something Kuroo would never have thought of in conjunction with Akaashi Keiji.

They go for a jog.

It’s a nice midsummer afternoon, and Kuroo has been itching to do something outside. It’s tough being cooped up at home all the time, answering emails and watching Akaashi out of the corner of his eye. Static workouts on his yoga mat just aren’t cutting it anymore, which is why Kuroo gets the brilliant idea of going out for a quick run with Akaashi in tow.

Akaashi looks small in Kuroo’s oversized exercise shirt and baggy basketball shorts. It looks kind of hilarious, honestly, because Kuroo is so used to Akaashi wearing regal traditional attire- at least while Kuroo had been spying on him. Just seeing Akaashi in casual wear for the first time was shocking enough, and it serves as a reminder that the yakuza aide is actually three years younger than Kuroo is.

Kuroo leads them down the street and onto the circuit at the park nearby. He’s tensed up, just in case Akaashi decides to bolt at the first opportunity, but Kuroo is barely surprised now that Akaashi chooses to patter after him; strides strong even as he remains a little behind and to the side from Kuroo.

“Akaashi,” Kuroo sighs. It’s soft and almost drowned out by his panting, but Akaashi still hears it. The younger man speeds up so that they’re side by side, eyes locked on Kuroo. The officer briefly wonders if this is what it’s like to have a bodyguard. “Akaashi, you know you can stand next to me, right?”

A look of confusion crosses Akaashi’s features. “But then who will watch your back?”

“No one’s going to attack me in the middle of a park, Akaashi,” Kuroo grumbles. He spares a look to the side, where Akaashi is watching him impassively. “Why do you even- Ugh. Forget it.”

Akaashi’s body probably remembers more of his habits than his mind, so it’s no use talking to Akaashi like this. Kuroo changes tactics. “Are you making fun of me, Akaashi?”

“No, I-” Akaashi looks a little taken aback, blinking rapidly as his steps falter. He starts lagging behind again. “I would never make fun of you, Kuroo-san.”

“Then why aren’t you jogging with me? You can keep up; you just don’t want to be with me.” Kuroo retorts, swallowing down a smile. This is almost like playing with a child. “Is that what it is, Akaashi?”

Akaashi’s concern shows, and its actually kind of endearing. Kuroo has teased many people in his life, but Akaashi is the only one out of all of them who’s continuing to tolerate it even though Kuroo is acting like a spoiled child.

Maybe Akaashi isn’t even aware that Kuroo is teasing him, which is honestly quite worrying.

“I’ll jog next to you if that’s what you want, Kuroo-san,” Akaashi says, indulgently, and falls into step beside the officer again.

Kuroo wonders if Akaashi has always been this easy to manipulate. Probably not, unless it was someone that could lower Akaashi’s guard. Kuroo definitely wouldn’t have had a chance in hell back then. This level of dedication, of honest-to-god mollycoddling, had probably been reserved only for Bokuto Koutarou.

A flash of irritation has Kuroo gritting his teeth. Bokuto had this. He _had this_ , and yet he’d chosen to throw it away like yesterday’s trash. Bokuto abandoned Akaashi back at the warehouse, and while Kuroo had been angry then, he’s downright furious now.

Kuroo drops Akaashi off at his apartment before he takes an extended jog to the grocery store. It helps to cool him off, somewhat, as he ponders over these new protective feelings.

It’s tough to continue hating someone who has done nothing – post memory loss, that is – but be kind and caring to him. Like this, Akaashi is someone who wouldn’t hurt a fly and it makes it hard for Kuroo to justify harboring hateful emotions towards him.

Midway through browsing through the mackerel on sale, Kuroo makes an annoyed sound and pulls at his sweaty hair. A few of the old aunties from the neighbourhood look at him oddly, so Kuroo bows his head at them in apology and focuses his attention back on the produce.

Kuroo was raised to be righteous and forgiving, and although his mother has passed away, he still wants to be someone she would be proud of. Kuroo’s mother would have accepted Akaashi right away, the same way she forgave Kuroo’s father for leaving them with his mountain of debt.

Kuroo is too selfish for that, but he’ll still make an effort.

When Kuroo reaches home, the sky is already fading into the sticky red sunsets that are characteristic of summer in Tokyo.

“I’m home!” Kuroo calls out, as he unlocks his door with a yawn. He shuffles lazily towards the kitchen, allowing the bustling sounds of the city to fade away into the peaceful silence of his small apartment.

And then Kuroo stops, stock still as he runs frantic eyes over the empty, dark living room. Kuroo has gotten so used to hearing Akaashi call out to him, has gotten so used to having Akaashi bound up to him the moment he steps back into the house that the silence is now jarring. Even worse, it’s suffocating.

“Fuck!” Kuroo growls, tossing the mackerel in the fridge. He let his guard down, and now Akaashi is gone. He can imagine it already, caricatures of Bokuto and Akaashi pointing and laughing at him as he returns his badge in shame.

Kuroo skids on the floor in his haste, socks lacking any sort of friction against the smooth wooden surface. He pulls open the bathroom door first, takes in the water clinging to the walls and fogging up the mirror. Maybe Akaashi is still here, if he only recently took a bath, but if he’s not in the living room then he must be in- he must be in Kuroo’s bedroom.

Panic wells up in Kuroo’s belly as he now strides down the short hallway separating his bedroom from the rest of the house. Akaashi knows that he’s forbidden from going in there, because Kuroo’s gun and badge are kept in his bedside drawer. Kuroo doesn’t know what’s worse – Akaashi running away, or Akaashi getting his hands on a firearm.

Kuroo presses his ear up against the door, quiet as a dormouse as he listens for any odd sounds. He frowns as he hears quiet sniffling, and then he cracks open the door just a fraction to peek inside the dark room.

Akaashi is sitting on the floor, in front of the full-length mirror attached to Kuroo’s wardrobe. It’s the only mirror in the house save for the small face mirror hanging over the sink. A towel pools on the floor around Akaashi’s hips, milky skin bared in unabashed nakedness, but Kuroo’s eyes don’t roam too much. He’s drawn to the same thing Akaashi’s puffy, red gaze is glued to.

The tattoo is huge, a mass of sweeping lines reminiscent of water colours covering up the smooth expanse of Akaashi’s back. A pair of Koi fish circle each other in a scene come to life, one fully inked and the other the colour of Akaashi’s skin. Even little ripples of water are included in the design; lotus flowers blooming along Akaashi’s spine.

Kuroo’s mouth goes dry as he rakes his eyes over skin that he’s never seen before, his traitorous body reacting as his blood rushes south.


	6. be mine, be better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, three things:
> 
>   1. I'm sorry I'm so late!!
>   2. I explain myself and my circumstances in my profile/on Tumblr.
>   3. I changed some tags and lowered the rating to M!
> 

> 
> Thank you so much for all the supportive comments and wow, 221 Kudos? I'm blown away!!
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy this new chapter too!! <3

_This is wrong._ Is the first thing Kuroo thinks, even as he swallows hard and fists his fingers in the thin material of his shorts.

He shouldn’t be thinking about Akaashi that way. He shouldn’t even be looking at Akaashi as he’s sitting there, naked and vulnerable, but Kuroo can’t seem to pull his eyes away.

Irezumi. A Japanese tattoo style that most Yakuza favor. Sometimes, it may even represent rank or kill count, but the way it’s marked in the design varies from clan to clan. Not that Kuroo could ever hope to decipher any meaning from it without any prior knowledge.

Kuroo never even knew that Akaashi had one too, and now he wonders how he could ever have overlooked it. Bokuto definitely has one, and his grand yukata are always worn loose to display the swirling tidal waves inked into his chest. This is unlike Akaashi, who had always wrapped himself up as in the proper fashion.

The tattoo _is_ beautiful, though – all swirling, delicate lines like the skillful brushstrokes of an Imperial painter. It looks even better on the gentle lines of Akaashi’s back.

Even if it’s technically a tattoo that marks Akaashi as affiliated to the Yakuza.

“Akaashi?” Kuroo calls, as he inches open the door. He meant to be louder, but his voice comes out in a whisper. It’s just as well anyway, because Akaashi still flinches violently away at the sound.

“It’s okay, it’s just me,” Kuroo frowns, mouth flattened into a grim line as he flicks on the lights.

Akaashi first tries to scramble off the floor, but he thinks better of it when he realizes that there’s only a towel protecting his modesty. Instead, he settles on rubbing away the tears still wetting his cheeks; his free hand in a death grip on the towel around his waist.

“What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Kuroo asks as he slowly kneels onto the floor an arm’s length away. Worry bubbles up in his gut. Akaashi always seemed to deal with his memory loss decently well, but that might not actually be the case after all. The possibility that Akaashi has been struggling all this time, with Kuroo entirely unaware, leaves a bitter aftertaste in the police officer’s mouth. “Akaashi, please talk to me.”

“I’m sorry, I just-” Akaashi starts, choked by a sob that gets stuck in his throat. Even beside himself with concern, Kuroo is shocked.

Akaashi always seemed somewhat unfeeling. Kuroo may be exposed to more of Akaashi’s moods and his little personality tics than ever before now that they are living together, but he has always been reigned in. Controlled. Stifled, to some degree.

This lapse in control is not something Kuroo has ever expected from Akaashi, but he it’s definitely not unwarranted.

“Don’t apologize, Akaashi,” Kuroo sighs, shuffling forwards so he’s nearer to the younger man. “I know this is hard for you, and I haven’t exactly been the most caring person-”

“No, it’s not your fault, Kuroo-san,” Akaashi shakes his head, eager to ease Kuroo’s anxiety. He turns his attention back to the mirror, trailing trembling fingers over his shoulder as he reaches for the ink decorating the smooth expanse of his back. “My heart aches so much when I see this. I-I’m not sure why.”

Kuroo feels his eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he’s able to school his expression back to indifference. The tattoo might mean something after all, something important enough that Akaashi still has lingering feelings associated with it.

“I’m not going to lie to you. I had no idea you even had a tattoo until now, so I’m not sure what kind of meaning it might have for you.” Kuroo finally says, after he realizes that he’s been staring at Akaashi’s bare back for an oddly long time. Akaashi doesn’t seem phased, even though his eyes are locked on Kuroo’s through the mirror. “But I don’t think anyone would get something so permanent for no reason.”

Akaashi nods, blinking as the taut, stressed lines of his face relax. “Do you- do you think it looks okay? I don’t know what I was thinking when I got it.” His eyes dart away, following the movement of his hand against stark black ink. “It’s not really something I can appreciate now.”

Kuroo reaches out, fingers twitching because he’s just a hair’s breadth away from touching the hypnotizing strokes. He stops, freezing entirely because he’ll have to reach around Akaashi to press his fingers into the skin of his back.

Akaashi’s breathing seems to have gotten quicker and shallower as well, as his green eyes stare into Kuroo’s in inquiry. Something changes in them, flickering in the olive depths, and Akaashi nods.

It’s a small jerk of Akaashi’s head, something barely even there, but Kuroo isn’t one to second-guess when he so desperately wants to touch. The police officer closes the gap between them, dragging fingers over the brushstrokes and then slowly, very slowly, running them down the ridges of Akaashi’s spine.

“It looks really good, Akaashi,” Kuroo murmurs, because there’s no need to raise his voice when his lips are so close to Akaashi’s ear. The younger boy shudders under Kuroo’s touch, even if it’s barely there. Or rather _because_ it’s barely there. “I really like it.”

Kuroo knows that he’s treading a very fine, very dangerous line.

The officer is almost overtly aware that Akaashi is substituting him for Bokuto, but for some reason he can’t seem to bring himself to care. Akaashi might be touch-starved, his emotions sensitive and unguarded like an exposed nerve, but that’s all part of the charm.

Akaashi had only become a cold-blooded monster under Bokuto’s corrupting influence. Now, Kuroo is free to mold him into something entirely different. Kuroo can make him good. Kuroo can even make him _perfect_. The possibilities are endless, because without his memories, Akaashi is a blank canvas that Kuroo would be foolish not to take advantage of.

“Yin and Yang. And the lotus flowers? I think it signifies balance, and tenacity,” Kuroo hums, eyes trailing back to Akaashi’s face. The other boy is a little wide-eyed as he reverently absorbs Kuroo’s words. Kuroo smiles, although Iwaizumi always says it looks more like a smirk. “It suits you.”

Relief immediately floods Akaashi’s expression. He’s too tired to conceal it, the veins in his eyes pronounced and the wrinkle of his mouth weary. Akaashi bites his lip, and Kuroo swallows down the sudden flood of saliva in his mouth.

“Thank you, Kuroo-san,” Akaashi says. He hesitates, before reaching out to tug on the sleeve of Kuroo’s sweaty exercise shirt. “There are all these feelings inside of me, feelings I don’t really understand, but I feel like I knew you… well, before.”

If Kuroo were a lesser person, he’d have snorted and said _yeah, you hated me_. If Kuroo were a better person, he’d have taken his hands off Akaashi and told him that _the relationship between us is purely professional_.

But Kuroo is neither, so he just smiles a little sadly and doesn’t pull away when Akaashi leans in closer, gaze uncertain in uncharted waters. The tension between them is tight and brimming with energy, like a violin string about to snap.

Kuroo hates himself a little, when it gets too much for him.

But then Kuroo surges forward to touch his mouth to Akaashi’s, and everything else – all the doubt, the anger and the self-conflict – is shoved to the back of his mind.

Akaashi’s lips are warm and wet and smooth, and he smells like Kuroo’s sporty shower gel. That’s all Kuroo can think as he presses in a little harder, parting his mouth to suck on Akaashi’s plump lower lip like it’s a juicy fruit ripe for the picking.

Akaashi doesn’t hesitate to sink into the kiss, his deep scars brushing against Kuroo’s skin as he curls his arms around the officer and digs slender fingers into his back.

Maybe this is just the culmination of months of uncertainty and tension. Maybe this is nothing more than lust, or even a haphazard connection between a pair of lonely souls. Maybe this is just Kuroo yearning for something that should never be his.

All Kuroo knows is that this isn’t love, and he can’t seem to bring himself to care.

Akaashi is sweet and loyal and attentive. He deserves so much more than Bokuto Koutarou, and if nothing else Kuroo is sure that he can be that.

The kiss comes to an end faster than Kuroo would like. Their soft panting is the only sound in Kuroo’s quiet bedroom, the shadows growing long in the twilight as their breaths intermingle in an even deeper intimacy than a reckless kiss.

Kuroo can hardly calm his own heart. Sure, the officer has had his fair share of flings and short-term relationships. He’s far from a virgin, but his dedication to his job has kept any serious relationship from forming. It’s been a long time since he’s touched anyone this way, and it’s been an even longer time since he’s let someone into his life like this – at least someone who isn’t Iwaizumi or Oikawa.

“Is this… okay?” Akaashi is the first to avert his gaze. He retracts his hands, only to twist his fingers together in his lap. The motion brings attention back to the fact that he’s barely dressed, and a hot flush makes its home on Kuroo’s cheeks.

Forget awkwardly aroused, Kuroo’s Little Friend would have been standing straight up at attention if not for the compression tights beneath his shorts.

Kuroo is saved from an unfortunate thought spiral by the sound of the doorbell ringing. The shrill chiming pierces through the otherwise tranquil evening and is soon accompanied by more impatient ringing.

“I should be the one asking you,” Kuroo’s lips stretch into a half-smirk as he reaches past Akaashi to grab some clothes. They’re just some of his ratty home clothes – an old high school sweater and a pair of cotton shorts. “Put this on, I’ll go check who it is.”

The incessant ringing tapers off as Kuroo stops by the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. By the time Kuroo gets to his front door, he can hear his visitors loudly debating the merits of breaking and entering. The officer rolls his eyes before finally opening the door to Oikawa and Iwaizumi.

“Oho, what do we have here, Kuro-chan?” Oikawa snickers, brown eyes narrowing before widening as he almost immediately sees right through Kuroo’s calm façade. The brunette wiggles his eyebrows teasingly. “Getting in some after-hours _exercise_?”

Kuroo replies with a smirk of his own, even though his heart is racing like it’s on the last lap of a Formula One circuit. “I just came back from a run. Some of us still need to keep in shape, you know.”

“Don’t I know it,” Oikawa winks, pinching teasingly at the hard cords of muscle at Iwaizumi’s bicep.

Iwaizumi, as usual, brushes off the offending limb and goes straight to business. There’s already a disapproving frown wrinkling the tan skin between his eyebrows. “You went out for a jog? And left Akaashi on his own? In your home?”

“Well… yeah,” Kuroo shrugs, scratching at the back of his head. He doesn’t blame Iwaizumi at all, since he’d been the most suspicious of Akaashi just a few weeks back. It’s just that things change, and Kuroo is convinced, at least, that Akaashi doesn’t have any intention of escaping.

Iwaizumi’s eyebrow twitches. He opens his mouth, most likely about to chide Kuroo for being careless, but instantly shuts it again – so quickly, in fact, that Kuroo can even hear the sound of his teeth clattering together.

“Kuroo-san, who is it?”

Ah. Right.

When Kuroo turns around, the heat in his cheeks almost comes rushing back because Akaashi is standing there in the hallway looking much too soft to be a villainous serial killer. His narrow shoulders are dwarfed by Kuroo’s red Nekoma sweater, legs long and toned and very exposed below the fabric of the shorts Kuroo lent him.

At any other time, Kuroo might have been worried about the way Akaashi’s hands are hidden in too-long sleeves. Now however, Kuroo can only think of how easily his friends could misunderstand.

“You must be Aka-cchi!” Oikawa calls, a wide smile spreading his cheeks as he elbows painfully past Kuroo. Akaashi shoots a bewildered look at Kuroo before he’s dragged away by a chattering Oikawa.

Kuroo empathizes, he really does, and he wishes he could help, but Hurricane Oikawa is usually accompanied by Thunderstorm Iwaizumi.

“What are you doing, Kuroo?” Iwaizumi’s voice is more gruff than normal, bordering reproachful. The sheer force of his glare isn’t anything to joke about, either.

“What are you talking about?” Kuroo raises a brow in return. He steps aside to let Iwaizumi into the house proper. Something clangs loudly in the kitchen, and Kuroo winces. Hopefully Akaashi’s max level in damage control applies to Oikawa, too.

“You hated Akaashi just a few weeks ago, and now you’re going on jogs and even letting him _wear your clothes_ like you’re-” Iwaizumi trails off, and then cuts his own train of thought off with a harsh exhale. “What happened between the two of you? Did you…?”

Kuroo almost flushes at Iwaizumi’s look.

“No! Who do you think I am?” Kuroo huffs instead, eyes darting over to monitor Oikawa and Akaashi’s shadows on the floor. “And I didn’t hate him! It was all professional.”

“Whatever is going on, Kuroo,” Iwaizumi starts, shaking his head when Kuroo turns his gaze back on him. “Don’t get too close. You don’t know when his memories are going to return.”

“Weren’t you the one who was all for rehabilitating Akaashi?” Kuroo retorts, feeling a tinge of annoyance emerge from somewhere deep inside. “You’re literally letting him hang out with your husband right now. Unsupervised!”

“Yes, so doesn’t it show you how much I care about you?” Iwaizumi snaps. He pauses, lips curling down into a resigned scowl. “Besides, you know how Tooru is. I can’t stop him from doing what he wants to do.”

“Look, I get it,” Kuroo sighs, running a hand through his messy hair. It’s still wet with sweat at the roots. “But all these weeks have only led me to believe that Akaashi isn’t a threat to anyone around him. At least not how he is now. You told me to give him a chance! And now you’re telling me to back off?”

“Giving him a chance is totally different from- from _fucking_ him, alright?” Iwaizumi whispers harshly, the words almost whistling through his teeth.

“Oh my God, no,” Kuroo rears back, partly horrified and partly distracted by the way the memories of Akaashi’s bare skin immediately flood his mind. “I’m not fucking him! We’re just normal roommates!”

Iwaizumi looks unconvinced, and he stares Kuroo down as the latter gets more and more uncomfortable. Finally, Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and breaks the silence.

“Bokuto could have as many women, as many men, as he wanted and yet our intelligence tells us that he only settled for Akaashi. Don’t you think there’s a reason for that?” Iwaizumi hisses. He jabs a finger on Kuroo’s chest, right above the officer’s rapidly beating heart. “Don’t let Akaashi get under your skin. You’re only going to get hurt, Tetsurou.”

Kuroo’s jaw clenches. For some reason this all irritates him – the fact that Akaashi had been so devoted to Bokuto, that Bokuto might have been the same back to his aide, and even that Iwaizumi is implying that Akaashi might have some way of manipulating the people around him like a puppeteer.

The officer wants to retort, to say that maybe Akaashi had been Bokuto’s first and only choice because of the way he is and nothing more. It takes Kuroo a second more to realize that saying that will rile Iwaizumi up even more than he already is, so he just swallows the indignance and settles on nodding instead.

Oikawa cuts in, shrill and loud and with all the perfect timing of the world. “Iwa-chan, you have got to see this! There’s nothing in Kuro-chan’s fridge but mackerel.”

“It’s all he eats,” Akaashi adds, a hint of amusement in what is otherwise a deadpan.

Glad to leave the conversation with Iwaizumi behind, Kuroo brushes lightly against Akaashi as he enters the kitchen and snatches his beloved fish out of Oikawa’s clutches.


	7. take your blessings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support!! We've already hit 297 kudos?? Which is amazing?? 
> 
> Merry Christmas everyone, take care and stay safe!! <3 I hope you all enjoy this chapter too, I think it's one many people have been waiting for! :)

“Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto looks up, with as much hope as a dead man, and feels his heart shatter yet again when he’s met with long dirty-blonde locks and intelligent brown eyes. There was once someone else who would call his name like that, someone with hair as black as night and eyes the colour of jade. This is not him.

The kumicho turns back towards his sake, turning the tiny embellished shot glass over and over in between his calloused fingers. It’s a pearly off-white, painted with delicate blue brushstrokes in something abstract Bokuto will never understand.

“It’s about time you stopped drinking,” Konoha continues, as though he doesn’t see the blatant disappointment painted all over Bokuto’s features. The remaining five of the six wings have had more than enough experience with what has been months of persistent depression, of childish tantrums and outbursts, which are the only ways Bokuto knows to release the pent-up emotion within him.

“Yeah, boss,” Sarukui nods, from where he’s polishing off his revolver beside Konoha. The ever-present upturn of his mouth lowers, just a little. “Give your liver a little break, already. Just think about what _he_ would say.”

Bokuto slams his cup down on the wooden tabletop.

Some of the sake spills out the sides, but it gets Bokuto’s point across. He’s almost surprised that it didn’t shatter in his hand.

There is silence for a moment, save for the rustling of the trees outside and the tinkling of wind chimes. It sounds more like a summer house in the middle of a country, rather than a restaurant with its own bright shopfront facade. Bokuto could very possibly forget where he really is, surrounded as he is by traditional tatami flooring, wooden blinds and the bright maroon of old Japanese architecture.

There isn’t anything around them for miles, just thick forest and the blinking stars above. It’s almost peaceful, but Bokuto isn’t here for pleasure. He isn’t even here simply to drown his sorrows, no matter how suitable the place is for it.

“You’re all very chatty for people who have consistently failed me for months on end,” Bokuto says, the words coming out as calm as they are poisonous. His eyes flicker from Sarukui, to Konoha, and finally to Washio at his perch upon the open windowsill; his strong arms crossed over his broad chest. “Where is the traitor?”

They exchange unsure glances, which drives Bokuto mad.

There is a traitor amidst them, amidst possibly even the Six - now five - Wings, and yet none of his subordinates have been able to find any leads. It’s disappointing and infuriating all at once, because the traitor had come _so_ close to bringing down their whole operation by its head. Because the traitor had the most important person in Bokuto’s life killed.

And yet, no one seems to care enough to hunt the bastard down.

“Two weeks.” Bokuto snarls now, fingers clenching white around his cup. It’s beyond him to control his emotions anymore. “If you haven’t found the traitor by then, I’ll be taking things into my own hands. I’m done playing by the fucking rules.”

“Understood.” The three men echo, bowing at the waist in acknowledgement. Even Konoha, the bureaucratic backbone of Fukurodani now that the previous one is dead, remains silent. Instead, he types something up on his tablet. “I’ll let Komi and Onaga know.”

Bokuto nods his approval. He takes a swig of his drink, free hand skirting beneath the haori draped over his shoulders to rest on the handle of his gun. “One more thing - I want him alive.”

Bokuto isn’t forgiving enough to grant an easy death. He’ll take his time with this one, and see to it that the traitor will be wishing, _begging_ , for death once he is done with them.

It will be his utmost pleasure.

Konoha, Sarukui and Washio seem to be able to sense Bokuto’s killing intent, because their backs straighten and tense visibly. Bokuto might have taken much more care of them before, might have treaded around them with more respect. He’s always liked to believe they were more than boss and subordinate, more than just the hierarchy of the Yakuza. Bokuto has always believed that they were all friends, but maybe he’s been too trusting.

It only takes one time to know, for sure, but Bokuto’s gamble had stakes that were too high.

It only takes one time to sniff out a person capable of betrayal, but Bokuto has lost too much already.

Bokuto quickly knocks back another full shot glass. The sting takes his mind off things a little, off _him_ a little, and a comforting warmth spreads from his chest to the very tips of his fingers. Maybe this feeling is what alcoholics get addicted to.

A polite series of knocks breaks Bokuto out of his reverie.

Washio straightens, pushing himself off the windowsill to stand in the corner instead. Sarukui twirls the gun between his fingers - a nervous tick - while Konoha switches his handy tablet to the handgun he always has at his waist. It’s time to go to work.

When the door slides open, Bokuto is greeted not by an entourage but by a single man standing in the hallway. He’s well-built, thick and lean in all the right places, and it shows through the silken maroon of his yukata. The most eye-catching part of his attire is not the katana draped through the black ribbon wrapped around his waist, but the kitsune mask that hides his face from view. The glossy red and black paint mark out smiling eyes, whiskers andpointed fox ears.

“Oi, oi, isn’t the atmosphere in here a lil’ dangerous?” The man snorts, sounding more amused than taken aback. His deep voice lilts up at the ends in a prefectural accent Bokuto can’t place, but what is obvious to the kumicho is the challenge in his tone.

“Bringing a sword to a gun fight, boy?” Washio grunts. His gaze is more severe than usual, unflinching even as Sarukui flicks off the safety on his pistol. Konoha takes a step closer to Bokuto.

Bokuto eyes the dark grip of the sword and the emblem engraved onto its pommel, then turns his head away. He reaches for a new sake bottle, twists it open and pours the alcohol into two cups. “Don’t waste my time.”

“Aw, you’re no fun,” The man’s pout is audible through his mask, but his amusement doesn’t fade even as he steps into the room to clear the tight doorway. “Kita-san, this guy has the same hair as you!”

Kita Shinsuke offers no reply as he enters the room.

Like the previous fox-masked man, Kita is wearing a yukata. It's muted black instead, so dark the sword at his hip almost disappears into the material, while the haori draped over his shoulders is a matching red to his subordinate. The warm glow of lantern-light floods the private room from the hallway behind him, casting the stark grey and black of his hair in sepia. Kita is smaller - more frail, somewhat - than Bokuto remembers; dwarfed by another of his kitsune-totting thugs. This one is even broader and taller than the previous, more serious in the way he holds himself at Kita’s flank.

If Bokuto is the most enigmatic kumicho of all the Yakuza families in Japan, then Kita is the most traditional. Head of the Inarizaki Faction, Kita rules both Osaka and Kyoto with an iron fist. It’s fitting, in a way, that Kita would have control over what used to be the capital of Japan.

Kita’s steps are sure as he makes his way to the chair across from Bokuto, and he is deliberate in the way he folds back the long sleeves of his yukata.

“Bokuto. It’s been a while.” Kita greets politely.

“Yes, it has,” Bokuto answers. He picks up his cup, tips it towards Kita in the bare courtesy of a toast, before flicking its contents down his throat. “So what are you doing here?”

Bokuto has never been one for diplomacy. He hasn’t even been out of his childhood home for weeks, and he’d very much like to go back to mourning in peace. He doesn’t have time for whatever Kita’s come to Tokyo for.

“You, actually.” Kita replies, which stills Bokuto with his hand around the neck of a sake bottle. “The Fukurodani Group is quite literally our last stronghold in Tokyo. It’s a disgrace. And yet you’ve allowed your entire operation to come to a halt because of the death of your aide?”

Bokuto inhales sharply in warning. His eyes flicker over to the first Inarizaki member to come in through the door, the one that has draped himself over the high back of Kita’s chair, and he smiles. “How’s your brother, Atsumu?”

Inarizaki might be powerful, but Fukurodani is nothing to scoff at either. Kita is trying to back Bokuto into a corner, but Bokuto has his own arsenal of Inarizaki secrets - secrets that very much dwarf that of Fukurodani’s.

To his credit, Atsumu recovers quickly. He turns his mask over to the side, so that it is propped up against the side of his blonde head instead of hiding some very recognisable features from the world, and smiles nastily back at Bokuto. “Unfortunately very alive, Bokuto-san.”

“Yeah, it must be super hard,” Bokuto nods, patronisingly, as he leans back in his seat and clasps his hands together. “Did you ever send him flowers? Or some kind of gift?”

“The _Chief Inspector_ ,” Atsumu spits. His face has contorted into an angry frown, knuckles white where his fingers dig into Kita’s chair. “Can expect to receive a present of the explosive nature if I ever deem fit.”

Miya Osamu. The youngest Chief Inspector ever appointed, and he’s the twin brother of one of Inarizaki’s most prominent members. It’s almost laughable, if not dangerous.

Bokuto wonders if Atsumu is aware that Osamu’s new post is largely due to the high number of gang-related law enforcement deaths in the greater Osaka region. Bokuto also wonders how many Chief Inspectors Atsumu has already killed.

“We are not here to discuss Atsumu’s regrettable familial ties.” Kita interrupts, calmly taking a sip of the sake Bokuto poured for him. “We’re here to discuss Fukurodani’s inadequacy. You can’t handle the Tokyo Division. You’ve even lost one of your aides to them, Akaa-”

The sound of fine china shattering cuts Kita off.

Bokuto’s lip curls. His arm lays like a thick cord on the tabletop; unflinching against both the alcohol that now pools around it and the shards of broken glass alike. “ _Don’t_.”

It’s the giant elephant in the room - the two words that everyone around Bokuto has been forbidden to use since the incident months back. The name that signifies not just Bokuto’s failure but a loss so terrible it may one day become tantamount to the fall of the Fukurodani Group.

Akaashi Keiji.

It’s been months since Akaashi’s death, and yet Bokuto has yet to move on even a fraction. Thoughts of him plague Bokuto’s every waking thought, every fleeting dream and terrifying nightmare. Losing Akaashi only opened Bokuto up to the reality that he’s weak. He’s always been dependent on Akaashi for one thing or other, relying on him and trusting him unconditionally.

Unconsciously, Bokuto reaches for the swirling blue waves inked in perpetual motion on the skin of his chest. Akaashi has always been an unchanging presence at his side, whether it be in the role of faithful aide or doting lover.

Now that he’s gone, Bokuto is lost.

It’s pathetic - all of it. How Bokuto can barely run his own gang, now. How he can barely come to trust any of the subordinates he groomed for years. How even now, months after they buried an empty casket in the ground, he’s failed to even visit Akaashi’s gravestone in passing.

It’s still much too painful, as though Akaashi’s passing were an open wound festering without cure. And Bokuto is sure that Kita knows it too.

“The Fukurodani Group is none of your business,” Bokuto finally snaps, almost feral.

“It is when the Yakuza in Tokyo are disappearing one after the other,” Kita replies. His calm demeanour is bitterly cold as it delivers the undeniable truth. “We cannot show weakness, and yet you’re allowing a power vacuum to form. Tokyo is a prime location for business. It’s not personal, Bokuto.”

Bokuto grits his teeth. Kita takes his lack of reply as admittance, and stands from his seat; clearly done with what he’d wanted to say.

“The state of Tokyo has only gone from bad to worse since the time of our fathers. It’s time you did something about it.” Kita’s muted brown eyes are emotionless as he regards Bokuto one more time. “Or Inarizaki will have to step in.”

The ultimatum is clear.

Bokuto remains silent, stunned speechless at the blatant threat, and can only watch as the three men head towards the door.

“An eye for an eye, Bokuto-san,” Atsumu winks, the last out into the corridor as he pauses to slip the mask back into place. “At least, that’s what I would do.”

And then he’s gone, too.

Bokuto shrugs the haori off his shoulders, a haze of frustration radiating from his skin as the alcohol is left forgotten on the table. The other three are silent as they watch him stride over to the window, slam his hands down onto the chipped wood and breathe in the clean night air as deeply as he can.

Kita is stepping over his boundaries. He’s threatening Fukurodani’s power and their territory, but at the same time he's also... not wrong.

Fukurodani is in a mess, both within their ranks and in regards to their dealings with the police. With fucking Kuroo Tetsurou and his undying persistence. Maybe Kita’s visit is actually a blessing in disguise, because now Bokuto can clearly _see_. There is defeat and sorrow and pain in him still, but all of it takes a backseat to the dark anger coursing through his veins.

Bokuto will find the traitor. He’ll deal with Kita too, but that still comes after what he desperately wants to do - hunt Kuroo down and exact his revenge. A slow, painful one Bokuto will undoubtedly enjoy.

Not that it's going to be easy, of course. Bokuto is sure that the police force would never leave one of their best and brightest unguarded. Getting to Kuroo might not be possible now, but Bokuto's experience tells him that there are multiple ways to smoke the rats out of their burrows; that there is always _something._ All he needs to do is find the chink in the armour and exploit it.

Akaashi has always told Bokuto that he's too self-indulgent, too reckless in the way he gives in to his emotions.

Akaashi isn’t here anymore, though.

And now, Bokuto knows exactly what to do.


	8. remember me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how, but we reached 370 kudos TT.TT <3
> 
> Thank you all for your patience!! Don't worry, I am still updating this and I do want to finish it!! I'm just glad that so many people seem to love this story?? Not 100% satisfied but I don't want to delay the update any longer, so I'll probably come back and edit this chapter again.
> 
> Enjoy <3

Akaashi dreams.

He dreams of swirling waves over a broad chest. He dreams of big, rough hands that are too gentle to be real, and he dreams of a bright smile and piercing golden eyes. These are the good dreams, the ones Akaashi never wants to wake up from. It’s inevitable that he does, however, and he does so with a deep, chilling feeling of yearning and melancholy even Kuroo’s warmth can’t chase away.

There are also the bad nights. The ones where Akaashi’s dreams are plagued by dark hallways and blood staining his hands, the sharp glint of a knife in his grip and the broad back of a man dressed in shadows.

These are the nights he wakes up screaming.

It’s one of these nights that Akaashi’s eyes snap open to a dark figure.

For a moment, Akaashi panics. He flails, striking out at the person looming over him, but his hand is caught laughably easily. This wakes him up just a fraction more, enough for him to jerk upright with a gasp.

As Akaashi sheds the last vestiges of his nightmare, the dark shadows give way to the familiar planes of Kuroo’s face. The police officer is sitting by Akaashi, still as steady as a rock. While the way his hand clamps down around Akaashi’s now turns anxiety into relief, the way he looks down at him, his mouth a grim line on his face, makes him look like a ghost from Akaashi’s lost memory.

“You feeling okay?” Kuroo asks, releasing Akaashi’s hand. He raises it till Akaashi can feel it hovering over his cheek.

Akaashi presses his face into Kuroo’s palm. Kuroo’s fingers stiffen, before they relax and curve into a mould of Akaashi’s jaw. They are slender but firm, his nails biting lightly into the skin above Akaashi’s racing pulse. So close to Akaashi’s neck that it would take no time at all for them to wrap fully around and… squeeze.

It makes Akaashi feel all heated inside, his heart thumping hard against his ribcage at the thought. Not just because, as they are now, Kuroo could easily end his life. It’s also because this is the best way, if not the only way, Akaashi knows to show that he trusts Kuroo.

“I apologise if I woke you.” Akaashi murmurs, nuzzling gently against Kuroo’s touch.

“You didn’t.” Kuroo smiles crookedly. He moves his hand upwards, away from Akaashi’s neck, to cup his cheek and rub at stray tear tracks with his thumb. “I was getting some water when I saw you thrashing. Was afraid you’d slip off and hurt yourself.”

Akaashi shakes his head. “It’s not a big deal. Go back to sleep, Kuroo-san. It’s late.”

Kuroo hesitates. His eyes gleam golden under the faint moonlight that filters through the curtains, but they are more narrow, more muted, than the ones in Akaashi’s dreams.

“What were you dreaming of, Akaashi?” Kuroo finally murmurs. Akaashi’s eyes follow the clench of his jaw and the pull of his eyebrows. He’s worried.

“It’s hard to tell, but. Blood, mostly.” Akaashi replies. He’s never one to keep the truth from Kuroo, even if it might inspire more worry. “Blood on my hands. And the flash of some kind of blade.”

“Do you see anything else? Faces, maybe?” Kuroo prompts. His hand falls away, leaving Akaashi’s cheek cold even in the humid early-autumn air. “It might help to jog your memory if you can describe any people you see.”

Akaashi frowns. “There might be… two people. They’re so different. One of them only shows up in the good dreams, while the other only shows up in the bad.” Akaashi pauses. Kuroo nods at him to continue. “The bad one is always hidden in the dark. The good one has golden eyes, like yours, but that’s all I can remember. The rest of his features are blank.”

Kuroo exhales, low and long.

“Kuroo-san-?”

“Wait here,” Kuroo says, getting up from his seat and taking quick strides down the hallway. Akaashi stares after him, feeling a little lost. He props himself up onto his elbows, reaching down to retrieve the pillow and blanket he’d most likely thrown off during his nightmare, before sitting up against the backrest.

Kuroo doesn’t take long to return, and he flicks on the table lamp as he rounds the corner into the small living room. It casts a dim orange light that makes the room seem even more cozy and homely than it did in the soft shadows of the early morning.

When Kuroo sits down, he does so a little further away than before. The sliver of space between them feels miles apart now that Akaashi had just had Kuroo’s hands on his face, but Akaashi is quickly distracted by the box in Kuroo’s hands. The police officer fiddles with it, turning it over between his fingers, before holding it out to Akaashi.

“A gift.” Kuroo supplies, when Akaashi only returns the gesture with a questioning look. “Take it as a congratulatory present. For recovering.”

Akaashi’s heart beats a little faster as he blinks up at Kuroo, and then down at the navy box. “You… didn’t have to, Kuroo-san. I’ve been well enough to clean your house the past few months.”

“In-lieu of all the cleaning and cooking you do for me, then,” Kuroo smiles softly, whilst nudging at Akaashi’s limp hands with the box. “God knows I can’t afford to pay you a real salary.”

“Kuroo-san,” Akaashi purses his lips disapprovingly. He’s never been able to deny Kuroo anything, however, so he ultimately ends up taking the gift off Kuroo’s hands.

The small box is made of light canvas, and it easily snaps open on a hinge. Sitting inside on a bed of black velvet, is a shiny silver link bracelet embedded with a single, winking green gem that looks strikingly similar to the shade of Akaashi’s eyes.

This time, Akaashi utters Kuroo’s name in hushed awe.

“Do you like it?” Kuroo asks, shuffling closer till his thigh bumps up against Akaashi’s. It’s almost a relief to feel their skin touching, again.

“Yes, of course,” Akaashi nods, eyes wide as he gazes at Kuroo. “Thank you, Kuroo-san, but this- this is too much.”

“It’s not,” Kuroo shakes his head. He scoops the bracelet off Akaashi’s palm, leaving sparks where his fingers brush against skin, and wraps it around Akaashi’s wrist. Akaashi himself is more distracted watching Kuroo’s features - softened, in the dim lamplight - and the way his eyelashes brush against his cheeks as he works the clasp.

“I’m glad,” Kuroo continues, gaze meeting Akaashi’s when he looks up. They’re so close now that Akaashi can see the little flecks of brown and amber in his eyes, can see the way his pupils dilate into dark orbs in the middle of piercing golden. It reminds Akaashi of the time they kissed, and it makes him yearn for more. “It suits you.”

Akaashi reluctantly breaks eye contact to inspect the new piece of jewellery dangling from his wrist. It does suit him, standing out in silver brilliance against the tan of his skin. The green gem is cut in an oval and linked to the bracelet on its pointed corners; somewhat resembling the shape of an eye.

The bracelet feels heavy; weighted, somewhat, and more so than Akaashi expected from something that looks so dainty. It makes him feel uncomfortable - a little nervous, even, but he doesn’t exactly understand why. Maybe it’s because Kuroo is giving this to him without expecting anything in return, or that Akaashi has no idea what he did to deserve such an unexpected present.

While Akaashi appreciates the thought, there is something else that he desperately wants. So, before Kuroo can get up and return to his bedroom, Akaashi gives into his selfish desires and tugs on the officer’s sleeve.

“Kuroo-san, can you stay with me?” Akaashi can barely get his voice above a whisper. It feels wrong to ask something of someone who has done so much for him. “Just for a while?”

Akaashi almost backtracks entirely at Kuroo’s surprised stare, but the instant guilt and regret must have shown on his face because the officer reaches out to ruffle his bedhead reassuringly.

“Anytime, Akaashi,” Kuroo says, stealing a corner of the blanket off Akaashi’s lap and draping it over his thighs.

Hesitantly, Akaashi rests some of his weight onto Kuroo’s side. His body is still tense. He’s not sure if he should do this, or if he’s allowed, because while Kuroo did say he would stay, it doesn’t mean he’s allowing Akaashi to touch him.

Akaashi’s worries are chased away when Kuroo draws an arm around Akaashi and pushes his head down, till Akaashi’s cheek is resting against the solid juncture of Kuroo’s shoulder.

“Rest,” Kuroo says, his voice rumbling against Akaashi’s face.

Like this, warm and wrapped up in the arms of someone he is almost certain he loves, Akaashi feels safe enough to close his eyes and drift off into sleep.

Akaashi expects Kuroo to go back to his room, and his bed, once he’s fallen asleep. It’s regrettable, but Kuroo has never expressed much of an interest to spend much time in close contact with Akaashi. While they do live together, Kuroo is almost always busy with work on his laptop. He closes himself off in his room during work calls, video meetings and especially at night - which Akaashi attributes to some kind of post-traumatic reaction to the horrible things he must have seen on the job.

So it is late the next morning, waking up with the sun streaming through the curtains, when Akaashi almost jumps out of his skin. He’s still half-asleep as he jerks lightly in Kuroo’s loose grasp. Kuroo’s hair has deflated somewhat, lying softly around his cheeks as he snores lightly; his head tilted against the backrest of the couch. Akaashi must have slid down in his sleep, because instead of leaning lightly onto Kuroo, he’s now curled up in the officer’s lap like an oversized house cat.

Akaashi’s cheeks heat up at the thought, and he has to take a moment to recover before he gently shakes Kuroo awake.

“Wha-?” Kuroo blinks blearily. The hand around Akaashi tightens, while the officer reaches up with his other hand to rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Kuroo-san, you fell asleep on the couch.” Akaashi says, swallowing lightly at the feeling of being hugged so tightly against Kuroo’s body.

“You told me to stay!” Kuroo replies indignantly, his cheeks colouring.

“I expected you to leave once I fell asleep.” Akaashi pauses, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. “But it’s nice that you didn’t leave.”

Kuroo replies with a bright grin. The way it tugs on his cheeks and makes his eyes glow - it hits Akaashi with a strong pang of longing. Only Akaashi still isn’t sure where, or who, that nostalgia is for.

“I’d love to stay on this terribly uncomfortable couch with you all day long, but we need to go,” Kuroo says. His smile has faded into a slight frown as he scrolls through the messages on his phone. Akaashi knows better than to take a peek, so instead he busies himself untangling his and Kuroo’s limbs. “Oikawa needs help at the store. His employee quit without notice, and now there’s no one to send out the deliveries. You’re okay to hang around for a bit, right? Just to tide him over till he can hire someone new?”

Akaashi nods, stretching out his stiff neck.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi come over pretty often, and while the latter usually remains rather aloof, Oikawa has always been friendly. He’s like Akaashi’s first friend, excluding Kuroo, so Akaashi would gladly help out. “You wash up first, I’ll get the onigiri out of the fridge.”

“What flavour?” Kuroo asks, hopefully.

Akaashi rolls his eyes. “Mackerel, salmon and umeboshi.”

Kuroo pumps his fist in victory. Akaashi exhales a soft laugh, already shoo-ing him off to get ready.

Sometimes, Kuroo is much too predictable. His stubborn streak of loyalty to mackerel, and only mackerel, is absolutely ridiculous but equally as endearing. Akaashi thinks this is how Kuroo's wilful personality shines through; like a reflection of the determination with which he seems to go about doing his job.

Or maybe Akaashi is just biased.

Oikawa Florists is located on a shopping street on the edge of the city, in a recently gentrified area that has risen from poverty-stricken to new social media hotspot. There are quite a few students hanging around when Kuroo slides into a newly vacated spot along the main road, chattering incessantly at each other as they scour the pastel cafes and bustling arcades.

Akaashi stares a little - it’s really the first time he’s travelled anywhere out of the vicinity of Kuroo’s apartment. The sheer amount of people crowded into a single street is overwhelming.

Oikawa’s shop stands out even amongst the bright activity of the lane. A large, baby blue signboard boasts the words ‘Oikawa Florists’ in cursive, complementing the faded pinks and purples of the doorway. The shop itself is mostly glass panelling coloured by the bright cacophony of flowers spilling across the floorspace. It’s artistic and beautiful in the most Oikawa way.

Oikawa is close to frantic when Akaashi and Kuroo enter the store. His hair is in more of an organised mess than usual, the long sleeves of his shirt rolled up underneath the black uniform apron tied around his torso. It too, has the name of his shop imprinted along the seam of the large pocket sewn into the front chest area.

Oikawa’s urgent gaze immediately turns into relief as his gaze lands on them standing in the doorway. “You’re here! Finally!”

“It’s not like we could have _flown_ -” Kuroo cuts off in a huff when Oikawa hands over a large gift basket. His arms strain around the wicker base, and Akaashi notes how he scrunches up his face when the petals brush against his nose. Kuroo must not like flowers much, then.

“Here you go, Aka-cchi!” Oikawa winks, tossing over a square of dark cloth. When Akaashi snatches it out of the air, it unfolds to reveal a matching apron to Oikawa’s, complete with a small name tag with Akaashi’s name on it. “It’s nothing too complicated, just handle any walk-ins and answer calls. The list of available flowers is on my work laptop - there are more instructions there as well.”

“Oh- Okay,” Akaashi blinks, slipping the apron over his head as he watches Oikawa haul out a small flatbed trolley already loaded up with more gift baskets and large bouquets. Akaashi almost startles when he feels a warm hand on the small of his back, head snapping around to meet Kuroo’s worried gaze. He shoots the officer a small smile. “Drive safely, Kuroo-san. I’ll see you later.”

Kuroo pauses before he smiles back and nods. He shifts the basket in his arms again, and then goes to hold the door open for Oikawa to pass. Akaashi’s heart pangs in his chest. Kuroo is such a good person. A gentleman, really.

Akaashi might not understand their developing dynamics, or have a label to put on whatever is going on between them, but he does know that he cares deeply about Kuroo. After months of living together and getting to know each other, Akaashi is way past regarding Kuroo as just his saviour.

“-how many of these do we have to-?” Kuroo’s complaints fade as the door closes behind him with a light tinkle. Akaashi runs his fingers over the new bracelet secured on his wrist, before trailing backwards to finish tying the apron around his waist.

As Akaashi settles into reading the instructions Oikawa left for him, he realises how quiet the store really is. It’s partly lonely, after becoming so used to sticking by Kuroo’s side, and also partly soothing. The only company he has are plants and flowers, after all, while the soft piano music playing in the background creates an invisible shield against the hustle and bustle of the crowd outside.

Akaashi is midway through topping up water for the sunflowers when the doorbell chimes. His heartbeat speeds up, mouth drying slightly. A customer. His first customer. Since Akaashiwas left in charge, he must do well so that he doesn’t disappoint Oikawa and Kuroo.

“Welcome to Oikawa Florists. How may I help you?” Akaashi puts on a tentative smile, lowering the watering can and spinning around to face his first customer.

Akaashi isn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it certainly isn’t a young man clad in a dark hoodie. His hands are stuffed deep into its pockets, sneakers scuffing up the ground, but what is most striking is the combination of grey-streaked hair and bright, golden eyes.

“Akaashi?” Those brilliant eyes widen enough that Akaashi can see the red rimming them. “Akaashi, is that you?”


End file.
